


Those in Peril - A further story from 'The Poseidon Adventure'

by DanielPS



Category: The Poseidon Adventure (1972)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Poseidon Adventure
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 32,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27138158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DanielPS/pseuds/DanielPS
Summary: Whilst crossing the Atlantic in 1969, the ocean liner 'S.S Poseidon' fell victim to a colossal Tsunami, and capsized. With the ship now upside down and rapidly filling with water, the few surviving passengers and crew had to fight their way up through the inverted innards of the ship to escape before it finally sank.We know the story told by the 1972 blockbuster 'The Poseidon Adventure' and the follow up movie 'Beyond the Poseidon Adventure'. This new account, blends both these movies with the original novel by Paul Gallico, and tells the story of other passengers that survived the initial disaster, only to find themselves faced with an upside down, torn apart world through which they must race to escape the rising water. Who will survive?





	1. Chapter One – Curacao

He stood waiting, impatient, tugging at his waistcoat to ensure it was straight. He leant down slightly to catch his reflection in the window, checking that his youthful, slender face was still free from stubble.

As Sheridan finally stepped through the small cabin door and out onto the small flight of steps, the humidity struck him like a brick wall. All too quickly, he realised why the airline check-in staff in New York had given him such a perplexed look when he booked his ticket wearing a heavy tweed suit. He’d been in such a rush across the airport from his London flight that he had given barely any thought to planning ahead, least of all for the difference in climate. Whilst there was some rain in the air, the wind was still warm and suffocating.

He pulled his handkerchief from his top pocket and swept away the thick layer of sweat that was already building up beneath the brow of his heavy head of dark hair. The stewardess at the bottom of the steps gave him a well-rehearsed smile as she brushed her long, billowing brown hair out of her face, but did a poor job of masking the titter she let escape as she saw his discomfort. Realising she had been caught, she broke eye contact to look down at her neatly clasped hands, whilst maintaining the formal smile she had been trained to preserve at all costs. Sheridan felt his face growing redder, not just from the heat but the humiliation, and as he stepped off the steps onto the concrete runway, he snatched his jacket from his shoulders in a sharp, overt motion that the stewardess couldn’t possibly miss. He glared at her name badge – ‘Nancy’. The urge to say something was overpowering, a tirade of personalised abuse was dancing on the end of Sheridan’s tongue, that when released, would somehow serve to alleviate his embarrassment. He immediately took note of the fact her eyes appeared slightly crossed, and whilst still very pretty, he knew he could bend that minor observation into a hurtful weapon.

“Now look here you little…” He snapped, as he had done a thousand times before at a thousand different stewards, maids, chauffeurs and all other manner of help he had come into contact with throughout his life. Yet as her sheepish eyes that were so clearly filled with regret met with his, he swallowed the rest of the words before he could spill them. He quickly looked away, down at his shoes, then out across the airport runway, before making a quick escape. A fresh wave of remorse and anger began to build within him, stoked by the stewardesses bravery to still utter a “Please forgive me, sir” as he strode away from her. It was that same temper, and lack of humility and respect that had landed him in the situation he now found himself, racing across the globe at the expense of his reputation and possibly his entire way of life. A turmoil of such selfishness, arrogance and no small measure of cowardice now held him poised upon the verge of his undoing, which one way or another, felt all but inevitable. At least this way, if he could reach his destination, his ruin may come as a price worth paying.

In desperation to escape the scene of his outburst, and equally to proceed along on his journey, Sheridan Ambrose reached the terminal building. Slinging his jacket over his arm, he began to unbutton his waistcoat as he walked through the lobby and up to the information desk. This time, he paused to concentrate first on composing a polite smile, and even began to rehearse the simplest of pleasantries before he had even reached the pretty young creole girl attending to the desk. She welcomed him with a genuine, wide smile.

“Good morning my dear,” He began, pausing again to hold back the frustration in his voice that stemmed from his anxiety about reaching the port on time. “I need you to arrange some transport for me at once, ideally a taxi but whatever is fastest, to the port. As quickly as possible.” She smiled again, and was about to reply before Sheridan quickly remembered to add “…thank you.” The girl nodded in appreciation and again smiled, before replying in perfect English, with a slight Dutch accent.

“A Taxi will certainly be your most direct route. May I ask which area of the port you wish to reach?” Sheridan sighed, catching his breath as he pulled his burgundy cravat from around his moist neck.

“The ‘ _Poseidon_ ’, an ocean liner currently docked here. I need to hurry she is due to sail at twelve.”

The girl reached for a telephone, and hang on for an answer. As it rang, she continued: “Yes the ‘ _Poseidon’_ arrived here yesterday morning, I had a couple disembark earlier today, the wife fell ill the poor soul. They were heart-broken, they had been saving for that cruise for three years.”

Sheridan realised his impatience was causing him to tense, and he was tightening his grip on the counter. Why didn’t she focus less on chatting and more on the task at hand? “Damned stupid…” He slipped again, but was quick enough to hush himself down to a whisper.

“Sorry sir? Did you ask something?” He looked back up at her, and was ashamed when he saw her genuinely pleasant expression.

“No, sorry. Ignore me. If you could just try and get me that taxi as quickly as you can…” He turned away after that and continued to wipe his face with his handkerchief.

In his haste to reach Curacao, Sheridan had since given little thought to the repercussions he would face when he returned. He had flown from New York without even discussing his ensuing absence with Jim Duncan or any of his fellow investors, all of whom would at that very moment be sat in heated negotiations about financing Jim’s new construction project in San Francisco. He took a measure of both regret and pride in knowing one of the main points for debate would be how they would possibly finance the project if Sheridan’s absence was an indication of his bailing on the project.

‘ _To_ _Hell with it… I’ll send them a wire from the ship, stop their paranoid tongues from wagging too much. I’ll wine and dine the entire consortium when I get back.’_ He thought to himself, fighting to overcome his typical habit of abandoning all other interests in favour of sealing the next business deal. He almost had himself convinced this time that he didn’t care about the risk of losing this one. He knew Doug Roberts would have his back anyway – the architect was something of a rebel himself and known for his own brand of sudden flights of fancy at the most inopportune times.

“Sir – a Taxi is waiting for you just outside the main doors. Once you have collected your luggage the driver will deliver you to the ‘ _Poseidon’_ in less than twenty minutes. Enjoy your cruise sir!” The girl behind the information desk called over to him. He managed a smile, and thanked her, before racing to the luggage carousel.


	2. Chapter Two - Observations

The rain had picked up again – the earlier showers having already ruined the morning for all the passengers aboard the ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ who had been planning on a last minute bout of souvenir hunting. Now, the turning weather threatened to deprive them even of taking to the decks to watch the ship’s departure. As a result, most had made their way straight down to the dining room for lunch.

Reuben Altman sat quietly in the lobby, nestled in the corner in a deep leather armchair browsing through an American magazine three days out of date. He heard the call over the ship’s public address system announcing lunch, a dreadful jingle on a xylophone the likes of which you may have to endure on some budget holiday camp, and rolled his eyes. Not so much in dislike of the jingle, but over the fact he was intentionally avoiding every reminder that he was missing lunch. He was starving, and under usual circumstances Reuben would have been quite pleased to have spent another meal time discussing the ships prior ports of call with that charming couple that had taken him under their wing the evening before. The woman, Belle Rosen, had not been blessed with the fortune of aging gracefully – she was corpulent to say the least, and whilst having clearly been a beauty once upon a time, her weight had cruelly contorted her looks. Her funny little husband, Manny, whilst still on the portly side, was clearly preparing himself to become a carer for his beloved wife in all but name as they entered their twilight years. Regardless, it had been pleasant to converse with other Jews, the ship seemed to be lacking in religious diversity – amongst the passengers at least. Belle had been particularly fascinated by his description of a recent trip to Israel. He had enjoyed himself so much in fact, that he had really wished that he could have expanded upon his ruse until it had closely resembled the truth.

He pictured the Rosens at that moment, settled at their regular table for two beside the port-side windows, regarding the luncheon menu with a little more enthusiasm than was good for them – especially dear old Belle. However, his need to remain where he was, sat in full view of the gangway, was paramount, and he would willingly endure a great deal more than a rumbling stomach to see his obligation through. He didn’t have to wait more than a few minutes, until his attention was drawn from the gossip columns of the rather drab magazine he was pretending to enjoy, by the arrival of not one but three vehicles on the dock outside.

The first vehicle, and closest to the gangway, was the harbour tour bus, ferrying back the last few of the ‘ _Poseidon’_ passengers who had dared venture out into the rain. The first two to disembark the bus could be heard arguing long before they appeared. The woman, a tall, lean blonde in purple flares and a white blouse erupted from the bus waving her arms over her head with a sodden newspaper that had torn apart. “You miserable, useless son of a bitch!” She screamed; “ _Here… use this honey!”_ she mocked her husband’s voice, as he casually followed her out onto the quayside. 

“Ah come on baby, I was only trying to help. Especially after how much we paid for Marie to do your hair this mornin’!” His voice was butch and deep, but he tried his best to soften it when attempting to placate his wife.

“You didn’t like it, you said it was a waste of money! Lying bastard!” She spat back at him, as she thrust the wet shreds of paper into his open palms.

“I only said that because you’re beautiful even when you ain’t had your hair done. You’re pretty now, the rain hardly touched ya!” He argued as fervently as he dared. The couple marched up the gangway and into the lobby. The woman, huffing and puffing like a bull ready to charge, vanished quickly up the stairs. Her husband, not far behind her, saw Reuben watching in amusement.

“Yeah? What you looking at?” He growled, before taking off after his wife. Reuben smiled to himself and chuckled.

The second vehicle on the dock, a brand new Mercedes with a uniformed driver, was already being unloaded. Suitcases were being transferred to a trolley. The driver had made his way around the front of the car and dutifully opened the rear passenger door. A young woman, in her mid to late twenties with tanned skin and blonde hair was also quick to emerge from the other side of the car and run around to assist the primary passenger from the back seat. The latter was an older gentleman, around sixty, balding slightly. He rose from the car with confidence and determination, yet as he began to move towards the waiting ship, he accepted the young woman’s keen gesture to take her arm.

The old man was Ricardo Fisher, owner of a large automotive plant in Argentina, who was joining the ‘ _Poseidon’_ late for the final transatlantic leg of her cruise. He paused to take a look up at the ship that towered over the dock, but it was with a dismissive wave that he turned away. “What an old rust-bucket.” He grumbled, pulling a cigarette case from his top pocket. “This old tub should have been sent to the breakers a decade ago. Christ alone knows how many more pennies they hope to squeeze out of her before she falls apart.” He lit the cigarette and gave it his undivided attention until he was satisfied it was burning. He let out a long exhale of smoke, before smiling at his young daughter and nodding for them to continue.

Emilia Fisher was used to her father being a grouchy type, he was very opinionated about such things. But she loved the old man dearly, and knew she would always forgive his moaning. After all, he had shown her nothing but devotion and care her entire life, and had spared no expense in her education and upbringing. When her mother had died five years ago, it had affected the old man hard, and she knew he struggled to find joy in life as much as he once had. As for her, Emilia was ecstatic about the journey she was taking with her father, and it was not lost on her that whilst the ‘ _Poseidon’_ was not the newest or even the fastest ocean liner anymore, she was still one of the largest, and had once been crowned the queen of the North Atlantic route between Southampton and New York. Together, Emilia escorted her father, still clutching his cigarette, up the gangway and aboard. Ricardo gave a formal but pleasant nod of greeting to everyone in the lobby, with a subtle grunt being the closest to speaking the word ‘Hello’ as he would go.

Reuben returned the polite gesture, and took a moment to lower his magazine and take in these additions to the passenger list, with whom he would be travelling for the next five days.

The third and final arrival was from the Taxi that had arrived abruptly behind the first two vehicles. Before the driver could make it around the car, the passenger had let himself out and was struggling with the latch on the boot of the car to open it and gather his luggage. This man was incredibly overdressed, in a sweat-sodden tweed suit with his jacket slung over one arm and an untied cravat hung loosely around his neck. His hair was stuck to his face, which was red and tired, but otherwise very handsome. Reuben could tell that whilst this character was comical in how inappropriately attired he was for a Caribbean island, he was evidently a wealthy man on a quest of such magnitude that it warranted the sacrifice of his dignity. This final arrival stormed up the gangway almost as fast as the first woman had done with the rain-soaked hair, and didn’t even seem to notice anyone in the lobby at all as he passed through and, having spoken briefly with the reception desk, disappeared into a waiting elevator.

At last, Reuben Altman closed the magazine that he had been trying to convincingly pretend to enjoy, and cast it aside with immense relief. However, he knew he would only know true relief, when the ship docked in Lisbon in five days, on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean. And so his vigil began, his initial objective was completed, and if he was quick, he could still enjoy at least a dessert with Belle and Manny Rosen.


	3. Chapter Three – Getting Underway

With the final passengers aboard, the ‘ _S.S Poseidon’_ was cleared for departure, and announced as much with a long sounding of her steam whistle. The vessel did look rather old fashioned in comparison to many of the neighbouring vessels moored up along the dock, her three huge funnels a start contrast to the single, sleaker-looking funnels on each of the younger cruise liners amongst which she had been nestled. However, older she may have been, but the ‘ _Poseidon’_ still towered over them all, and was almost twice as long as most. She had not initially been designed to simply cruise around sun-drenched islands at a leisurely pace, but had instead been built with two factors particularly in mind – sheer speed, and the ability to brave some of the very worst weather an ocean could throw at her. Any of the smaller cruise liners of the day, whilst fitted with modern diesel engines, would never keep up with the grand old lady if she was permitted to really go for it, and where the _‘Poseidon’_ may cautiously but confidently cut her way up and through a series of waves as high as sixty feet, seas as turbulent as that would quickly overpower and swamp the smaller cruise ships, which were built nowhere near as high out of the water as her. 

Formerly sailing under the name ‘ _R.M.S Atlantis’_ , the ‘ _Poseidon’_ had amassed a wide and loyal base of fans and loyal travellers, many of whom now chose a nostalgic holiday on-board, after the age of the faster jet-liners had taken over the market for necessary transatlantic travel. It was that fame and loyal customer base that had enticed the ‘Travel Consortium Ltd’ to save the old lady from her anticipated scrapping, and put her back to work as a cruise liner, with the added bonus of being able to use her vast cargo holds at the same time to turn an extra profit.

As the ship began to ease away from the dock, gently pulled out by two tugs, the passengers had just finished their lunch, and began to disperse throughout the great vessel.

Sheridan Ambrose, the last to board had now settled in his cabin – a suite on A deck. Two porters were carrying in his luggage as he was already racing to undress. As he pulled the untied cravat from his neck, and began to unbutton his shirt, he was at the same time trying to recall his own last voyage on the _‘Poseidon’_ , back when she was the _‘Atlantis’,_ trying to recall his way down to the dining room. It had been nearly ten years since his last trip, but until he had – like many others, forgone the week-long journey by sea in favour of air travel, he had frequented the ‘ _Atlantis_ ’ with as many as six or seven round trips a year.

With a large thud, the porter dropped the last suitcase down on to the bed as Sheridan had instructed, and with a polite nod, they were gone. The sound of the door latch closing came like a Trip Gong to a Boxer in the ring, and Sheridan was free to tear away the last of the suffocating tweed cocoon from his body until he stood in his underwear beneath the fan, sighing in bliss. Pulling open the suitcase he had singled out, he retrieved the beige linen suit he’d been wise enough to pack, and laid it out on the bed. He’d shower, and then get about his business. His two minds gave him pause – whether he would travel straight down to the dining room, or first visit the radio room to have a message sent to Jim Duncan in New York. He entered the bathroom with his head hanging low, ashamed that he still found his priorities so conflicted.

Down on D Deck, a vast corridor known as ‘Broadway’ was live with activity. The service corridor ran almost the entirety of the _‘Poseidon’_ s length, and was the central hub for all of the ships housekeeping, maintenance, food and beverage divisions. Thankfully, the corridors depth within the ship had kept it relatively cool. Harry Perkins, a young steward of twenty-four, was fighting his way down the small staircase from B Deck, doing his utmost to keep his white stewards jacket from rubbing against the wall. He was so very tired, and they were only just past lunch – his feet hurt at the very thought of making it through dinner service later. He had been up too late, his own fault he knew, but he had been unable to sleep soundly and had spent two or three hours up on A deck, looking out over the peaceful harbour, alone with his thoughts and regrets.

Harry followed ‘Broadway’ until he reached the wine cellar beside the cold meat storage locker. He briskly tapped on the open door before entering. Harry was always reluctant to go there, as the Sommelier was a short tempered, irritable Frenchman who seemed to take offence with anyone should they mispronounce even one syllable when requesting some of his French wines. By a welcome surprise, Harry instead spotted that Tex was alone in the cellar, and could therefore be called upon instead. Tex was famous, or more rather infamous among the ship’s crew, but it was impossible even for the sommelier himself not to take a liking to the teddy-bear like American with a big mouth and a knowledge of wines that would put the Rothschild’s to shame.

“Tex!” Harry called out as he stepped over an open crate of Dom Perignon. The towering bulk of a man, real name Dewey Hopkins, span around from a specific bottle he had been admiring, and instantly shone the young steward his signature grin. The staggering Assistant Sommelier reached out and ruffled Harry’s thin blonde hair with his giant hand.

“Well if it ain’t young Harry come to visit ol’ Tex. How ya doin’ son?” His speech carried a heavy Texan accent, hence his nickname that tended to be settled upon after a number of similar designations affectionately laid upon him by the crew – ‘The Texan’, ‘Texas Ranger’ or ‘Lone Star’. His right cheek was bulging with a mouthful of tobacco he was chewing on.

“How are you doing Tex? Listen I need a favour from you.” Harry smiled, leaning casually against the large rack of the cheaper wines.

“Shoot and it’s done, boy.” Tex chuckled as he moved the open case of Dom Perignon and began to remove the bottles and place them into a rack.

“We got a lady up in the Cabin Class dining room, right posh tart, American. Well she’s taken a liking to that Domey… Domey la Roman… something, you sent up at lunch time.”

“The Domaine de la Romanee –Conti? I only sent the one up so I know the one ya mean, boy. I’m not surprised she liked it, ain’t never met anyone who knows one dang thing about wine that didn’t like it!” Tex beamed. His cheeks were red and he had a slight sweat on, despite the room being reasonably cool. His reputation as an alcoholic was well founded, yet Tex had never been anything but a charming and caring gentleman, so the crew had gone some measure of a way to ensure he was left alone, provided the wine was kept well and his advice never faltered. The reason he was particularly fond of Harry however, was that Harry had been the first and only crewman to find Tex snoozing on the job, his face slumped down on a case of Chateauneuf du Pape. Harry had quickly roused him moments before the notorious French Sommelier had returned from his lunch.

“Well her names Mrs Lewis, Mrs Wilma Lewis – you can’t miss her, she’s taller than most men! Sits alone at table number eight. She’s asked me to make sure we have a bottled for her every evening, so could you set at least six or seven bottles aside?”

Tex held his clenched fists up to his face as he cheered, then peered over them with a silly expression as if playing a drunken game of peek-a-boo, “God damn, she sounds like my type of woman! She single?”

“Single, but from what I’ve seen she’s put the brakes on any bloke that gets too close. Best stick with your wines Tex!” Harry chirped, giving him the thumbs up before turning to leave.

“Words to live by boy! Words to live by!”

Harry turned out onto ‘Broadway’ and carried on to get himself a cup of tea. The smile he wore for Tex quickly faded, and his mind fell back onto what it had been that had chased him away from Southampton, half-way around the world, and landed him on the _‘Poseidon’._ That was a story that could never warrant a smile. As he looked ahead, straight down Broadway for as far as he could see, he realised that this claustrophobic, grimy, frantic swarm of servants and servicemen was to be his life, whether at sea or on shore, for as he had been all too painfully reminded, this was his place in the world, and he could hope to amount to little more.


	4. Chapter Four – At Sea

Having already been running a day behind when she had reached Curacao, the Captain was relieved to finally be entering some open sea, where he could open the engines up and really get the old vessel up to speed. The coded messages from the ship’s owners regarding the financial implications of his failing to reach Lisbon on time had been growing increasingly hostile, and for a man of an already nervous disposition, he was keen to stem the flow of threats. The current passengers were varied and exciting enough, but the passenger list schedule for the New Year’s cruise back out of Lisbon read like that of a Queens birthday party, and if they were all inconvenienced, the flack would land on the Captains head. He just hoped the weather ahead would soon clear, the sea was already getting choppy, and anything heavier than a light swell would force his hand to slow down.

Emilia Fisher stood alone on the sun deck deck, watching the last sight of land gradually diminish into nothing. As she felt the vibrations begin to pulse through the ships structure, the ship started to roll slightly, riding the waves the open sea brought with it. A slight breeze followed, which whistled through the lines overhead attached to the massive lifeboat that hung over her.

The wind was giving her trouble trying to light the cigarette she had perched between her lips. Normally she and her father would take turns in shielding each other’s smokes with their hand whilst striking up. She hoped he was ok, and that he would perk up on this trip. He had been hiding something from her, that much was obvious. His mood had grown worse, more so than ever before, and she didn’t pretend to know why. She assumed the stresses of managing the car factory, of which she could not pretend to have no experience, were beginning to weigh down on him as his age caught up with him. She found it strange though if that was the case, as he was after all only in his sixties, and his mind was razor sharp. She feared that whatever was weighing on his mind had something to do with this trip, which they had fought long and hard over when he had tried to insist on making the journey alone. Now safely on-board, Emilia had left him to relax in their cabin after the flight to Curacao, and chosen to explore the ship with her time alone. Why he had made such a fuss over a cruise to Europe was anyone’s guess – simply to negotiate the sale of a new model in Europe, something he had done a thousand times before with the United States. Whenever he had secured the right to sell his vehicles in a new territory before, it had cheered him up immensely, so why Europe should be so different for him, she couldn’t fathom. 

Suddenly, a hand appeared in front of her face, and she jumped, startled by the silent approach of the man beside her. He was mid-height, only slightly taller than her, with a fair complexion but strikingly dark hair, almost black. His large eyes were handsome and captivating, yet his abrupt intrusion had her unnerved. Finally he smiled; “Sorry I didn’t mean to scare you!” The man laughed, his voice almost American but with a very slightly accent that she couldn’t place. “I was only offering you a chance to light up – I saw you struggling.”

Not yet ready to forgive his boldness, Emilia gave him a modest scowl, before turning it into a polite thank you and using his out-stretched hand to ignite her lighter. She took in a long drag from the cigarette, before releasing the smoke to the wind. “Good thing about smoking outdoors on a ship, stand just right and the wind keeps the smell from settling in your hair.” She grinned, “Thanks...”

The young man waved goodbye, “Reuben, goodbye _Reuben_ ” he finished for her, and began to slowly continue on his way along the sun deck. Perplexed by the swift experience with the strange young man, Emilia tittered to herself and turned to slowly walk in the opposite direction. Oblivious to her surroundings, lost in thought, she walked straight into a middle-aged woman who was clutching the arm of her husband. At first, Emilia thought the clutching of her husband’s arm was an overreaction on the woman’s part – but the identification of a white cane in the man’s hand informed her that he was blind, and his wife was simply guiding him along the deck.

“I do apologise…” The lady began, a well-spoken American in her mid-forties.

“Not at all, it was my mistake, I wasn’t watching where I was going at all. Please excuse me” Emilia repeated, “I’m sorry sir.” She addressed herself directly to the ladies husband.

“Not at all, not at all. It’s fine.” He softly assured her. The three were ready to part ways as quickly as they had come into contact, when the woman paused and began to look into Emilia’s eyes. “My apologies dear, but have we met somewhere before? You seem familiar?”

Emilia was still in a bit of a fluster from the initial collision with the woman to even begin searching her memory, so instinctively replied with “No, I don’t think so, sorry I don’t recall anything.”

“I’m Hannah Meredith, this is my husband Harold. Sorry I don’t mean to sound forward, I’m just certain I know your face? Are you travelling alone?”

Giving up on enjoying the cigarette she had only just managed to light, Emilia stubbed it out on the railing and threw the stub overboard. “No, no I don’t mind at all, but as I say, I don’t recall our having met, sorry.”

Hannah Meredith didn’t say anything further, but continued to stare, her eyes clearly taking Emilia’s face in, analysing it, working, remembering. The silence continued so long that it was swiftly becoming awkward. At that moment, Emilia felt a hand take her by the upper arm; “We’re going to be late for that drink, shall we get going?” She turned, stunned, to find the young man Reuben had returned, wearing the same goofy smile as before. “Come on!” He urged, louder this time, his eyes wide, trying to tell her he was helping her out of an awkward spot.

“Oh of course… the drink. I’d almost forgotten!” She hoped her adoption of Reuben’s charade was convincing, but Hannah Meredith’s disappointed expression told her she hadn’t pulled it off. Yet the woman politely gave a parting smile, before placing an arm back around her husband’s waist and guiding him on.

“Well… a drink _would_ be a polite way of thanking me for getting you out of that!” He smirked. Emilia gave him a sceptical, reluctant look, before rolling her eyes. “I guess you’ve earned it. But you can help me light another cigarette first!”


	5. Chapter Five – Bad Seas

The Captain had enjoyed around four to five hours of clear weather, before the weather had abruptly turned on him. The wind had picked up certainly, yet the severity of the swells the ship was coming up against seemed disproportionate, almost as if someone had dropped a massive pebble into the ocean on an otherwise clear day. Already, he knew he had taken a stupid gamble, in allowing his pride and good standing with the _‘Poseidon’_ s new owners to persuade him not to impede her speed by taking on extra ballast to stem the old girls incessant rolling from side to side. That, combined with the damaged stabilizers resulted in the ship being wholly unprepared to handles seas she would have once conquered with ease.

Harry Perkins was struggling along the small corridor past the kitchens towards the dining room, navigating the pitching, rolling route cluttered with desert trolleys and ice buckets. He was balancing a tray of wine glasses, which he’d nearly dropped twice already. He’d quite enjoyed the novelty of the ship’s movement when he’d first joined her in Southampton, but when desperately trying to make a good impression on his first voyage, the inconvenience of rough seas had quickly become very tiresome.

“Steady lad, you should have your sea legs by now!” The senior steward Acre, a Scot, called out from the far end of the corridor. Harry Smiled to suppress a curse, and caught up with his mentor in time for them to enter the main dining room at the same time. Acre intended to escort Harry across to the table he was setting for the large German family of eight, but was beckoned away by a couple that had arrived early – the alcoholic Englishman and that rather simple girl that had latched on to him for most of the voyage. The pair were already leant over the bar, and gesturing towards the whisky they wanted Acre to serve them. He had just veered off, leaving Harry to make it across the listing dining room, when the latter’s path was suddenly blocked.

“Excuse me sir…” Harry began, quickly re-adjusting his hold on the tray, when he looked up at the young man that had stepped in front of him. Sheridan Ambrose looked down at him, with a severe, determined expression and the slightest threat of a smile. It was the final distraction to Harry’s concentration, and a sudden lurch of the ship upward as it cut through a wave sent the tray of glasses crashing to the floor.

The shattering of glass drew every gaze in the dining room to the two young men stood confronting each other, and Harry could see Sheridan’s eyes twitching from left to right, his cheeks reddening.

“Oh dear, five seconds and already I’ve humiliated you. That’s got to be a record, even for me.” Harry scowled up at Sheridan with a wild resentment.

“Stop it – I’m here aren’t I?” Sheridan snapped, snatching out to grasp Harry’s wrist, stopping him from bending down to tend to the broken glass. “I’ve flown all this way…you can at least here me out.”

Before Harry had a chance to respond in a manner beyond his glare, Acre had sprinted across the room and inserted himself between the two men. “Sir, I must apologise entirely for the boy, it is his first voyage and he’s still finding his feet – it’s the rough sea, he’s not used to it.” He begged, entirely unaware of the situation he had interrupted. He then span around quickly to face Harry;

“How _dare_ you argue back to a passenger! How very dare you! I must insist that you vacate this dining room at once. You can serve down in the crew dining area this evening until I have time to think this over.”

Harry tried to answer back, his eyes seeing through Acre to Sheridan, hoping in vain that he may correct the situation and save Harry from false punishment. Yet it came as no shock, but as painful experience as ever, to see Sheridan eye’s look away, not wishing to get involved, backing away from creating a scene that could potentially expose him.

“Asshole.” Harry spat over Acre’s shoulder towards Sheridan. Acre was stunned, his jaw fell open and his eyes grew as wide as saucers. “That is enough! Away with you, now!”

As Harry began to walk backwards, he held out his arms in despair, and sighed toward Sheridan. “Why bother coming, if nothing has changed?” He saw the tortured conflict upon his face, but still, no gesture, no salvation was forthcoming. Just eye’s directed at the floor and hands plunged into his pockets.

Harry made a swift escape through the dining room doors, and ran. Acre turned back to Sheridan; “Sir, I can’t apologise enough. I’d never have believed him capable of such rudeness had I not seen it for myself… I’ll just get this glass cleared and then I’d be pleased to offer you a drink from the bar, entirely free of charge.”

Sheridan pulled a hand from his pocket and waved, dismissing the matter. “Don’t fuss, don’t fuss. Just bring me a scotch when you’re done, with ice. But I must ask that you go easy on him – I was partly responsible.” The words were hard to force out, but Sheridan knew that he had to say something, he would get nowhere if he let Harry loose his new found employment.

“Sorry sir, but his behaviour was inexcusable. Nothing on board the _‘Poseidon’_ is the fault of the passenger, we are here to humbly see to your every need. I will need to take swift action against him, in the interest of maintaining the ship’s standards, you understand.” Acre then moved away to fetch a dustpan.

“Shit.” Sheridan muttered to himself under a long, frustrated exhale. He moved over to the Bar, and climbed up onto one of the small bar stools. He held his face in his hands for a long moment, before looking up at the art deco mural of the world map, created from carved pieces of light and dark wood, with beautiful detailing in mother of pearl. There had once been a crystal miniature of the _‘Atlantis’_ that had moved to indicate the ships position on the map, but for the last couple of years it had been jammed fast in Southampton, and half the crystal ship was now broken away.

His brooding was abruptly interrupted by the most irritating of giggles, from the young woman sat with the gentleman at the bar.

“Scotch before dinner? They say that gives you an appetite.” The man addressed Sheridan before having completely turned on his bar stool, his entire body already waving and jerking in a drunken state, fighting to keep himself sat upright.

“Yes I’ve heard it does. So what?” Sheridan sarcastically whined, not even bothering to look at the man in whom he had little interest.

“Of course you’ve heard it, it was probably me that told it to you!” The man let out a belly laugh and slapped Sheridan on the back a little too hard. “You don’t recognise me do you? You sure you haven’t already been at the sauce?”

Sheridan turned to face the moron that was getting on his nerves, before realising he did indeed recognise him. “Oh, Tony, Tony Bates.” Inside, he gulped, and his stomach tightened into a knot.

“Sheridan! I was about to feel hurt!” Tony Bates, an old business acquaintance of Sheridan’s, a partner in one of the key Stockbrokers firms that dealt with a number of his investments. “Here alone? I thought you were still in the big apple? Building skyscrapers?”

Sheridan waved over at Acre to hurry with getting him that scotch. “Yes, Skyscrapers. First one’s going up in San Francisco – one hundred and thirty-eight stories, starting next year. The _‘Glass Tower’_ they’re calling it.”

“Well if anyone’s got pockets deep enough to build them it’s you old boy. So what are you doing here on this tub? Not looking to buy her as well are you? You’re in danger of becoming the next Philip Stevens if you keep going at your rate!” He chuckled as he brought his glass back up to his mouth and took a large gulp.

“Can’t a chap take a holiday once in a while? Even Philip Stevens takes a holiday” Finally, Acre appeared and apologetically handed him a large Scotch.

“Yeah, on his own damn jumbo jet, where works never more than a phone call away! Anyway, you never struck me as the ‘holiday’ type – all work and no play, that’s you my friend.” Tony Bates continued to laugh to himself, until the rather sorry looking girl beside him tugged on his jacket, almost begging for his attention to return to her. “Then again, every man has his vices.” Tony’s eyes made a very quick, unintentional glance over to the scene of the smashed glasses. He then smiled and held his glass up for a toast. “It’s probably best I stick to keeping my glass full this trip – I’m sure you’ll be good enough to help me with that.” With a subtle wink of the eye, Tony turned away to face his female companion, who looked as silly and red faced as he.

Sheridan’s face crumpled with anger – yet another threat to his image and credibility had reared its head in a matter of hours. Tony sodding Bates, of all people. He wasn’t sure who, but somebody really had it in for him, judging by his luck so far.


	6. Chapter Six – Questions

Emilia was uneasy, and feeling rather unwell to boot. Her lengthy time spent out on deck making charming small talk with the young man Reuben had worked her up quite a hunger, and she had made short work of the superb dinner served that evening. Yet two things had spoilt an otherwise pleasant evening. The ships sudden lurching from side to side had put her in real danger of regurgitating every mouthful of the five course meal she’d eaten, and for the whole two hours spent in the dining room, she had been under the constant scrutiny of Hannah Meredith, who had spotted Emilia from the opposite side of the dining room between the Hors D’Oeuvre and Soup courses. The elegant yet intrusive woman had been less that covert in her repeated glances, snatching her head back every time she thought she might be noticed.

Following dinner, she had helped her father back to their suite. The old man was still in a solemn mood and had spoken very little through dinner, mostly spoken over by the common little man Frank Mazzetti, who hadn’t stopped talking, mostly about himself and his bar back in New York – his timid daughter Theresa had looked so embarrassed, and simply shone a smile and looked up briefly from her plate whenever he’d called on her to back-up one of his wild stories with “ain’t that how it was, Baby?”.

Emilia opened the door and left her father to take himself over to the small settee beneath the two portholes overlooking the small lounge area. “Did you notice that lady constantly looking over through dinner? She bothered me earlier too up on deck.”

Ricardo Fisher grunted as he pushed off his shoes in favour of a pair of waiting slippers. “No, can’t say I did my dear. What did she want?” He mumbled.

“She was adamant she recognised me from somewhere – absolutely adamant.” Her father gave a second grunt, “What does she look like? Was she Argentinian?” He put on his thick pair of spectacles and reached for a newspaper he’d set aside earlier.

“No certainly not, her skin is like ivory, she was American I think, but she was so well spoken she could just as easily have been English. Her husband was definitely American though, unmistakeably. They were both in their forties, fifties.” Emilia carried on as she began choosing what she would change into before venturing back out, possibly to the cinema.

“Ha, well then there you have it. The old girls probably just set back by how young and pretty you are my dear, you’ve been blessed with the very best of the gene pool – you’re a dead ringer for your dear mother, always have been.” His voice always went softer, soothing when he spoke of her mother, and his mouth would curl into a grin.

“I think she said their name was Meredith – yes that was it. Hannah Meredith… and Harold, her blind husband was Harold.”

It was either the sudden drop in her father’s face, otherwise the cabin suddenly becoming very cold, that sent a shiver down her spine. He looked genuinely shocked, almost scared. “Meredith? Blind… you said her husband is blind?” He stammered, but quickly composed himself by popping a cigarette between his lips and trying to calm his posture, when he saw his reaction had startled his daughter.

“What is it, do you know them then?”

He used the moment required to search for his lighter to stall for time. “No… no I don’t think so. I’m just surprised a man without his sight would choose a cruise in the middle of winter – it hardly makes for even ground. I imagine the poor fellow will be thrown from pillar to post.” Still shaken, he got up and walked directly over to her. “Still – don’t let them bother you my girl. I want you to enjoy this voyage but people can become a nuisance when stuck in such close quarters for a while. I think it would be better if you avoided speaking to this woman, or her husband.” He gently began to rub her arm as he had done when was a small girl, soothing her whenever she’d fallen or broken a doll.

Sheridan Ambrose had eaten alone in the end, asking to be seated in the corner. He’d almost kept pace with Tony Bates at the bar until dinner had been served, and despite the hefty meal, the scotch had stayed with him. It had served to sooth his sense somewhat, and as he now sat in the cocktail lounge toward the ships stern, curled into a deep armchair nursing a fresh whisky whilst watching the waves beneath the little sunlight that was left. He often did most of his less emotional thinking when he’d softened himself up with a drink – his friends had always joked that if he’d had a bad day, he’d be found in front of his favoured fireplace in the library, drinking and watching the flames dance the night away. It had been, in fact, in that very library back at Ambrose Hall, where he and Harry Perkins had first met. He’d been searching for a decent work of fiction to accompany him on his journey into London, when he’d looked up to see his butler, Hargreaves, bringing in the young man to introduce him as the new footman. There had been little interaction, just a quick summary of Harry’s previous experience from Hargreaves, followed by a formal, sharp welcome to the household from Sheridan, purely as a formality that he would struggle through for any new member of the domestic staff. He had noticed how particularly healthy and well-proportioned the young man had appeared for a servant, whereas more often than not he’d found domestic staff slightly malnourished or incredibly pale and withered from spending the majority of their time below stairs. But Harry had struck him as someone that could easily have enjoyed the same healthy upbringing he had enjoyed, by the mercy of his late father’s fortune.

He closed his eyes, and let the rolling of the aged ship rock him into a drunken stupor. “Care if I take a seat here?” His relaxation was quickly broken by a loud, bold voice from a massive man standing over him, his wide shoulders and entirely black outfit blocking out the light.

“Sure, sure, just keep the noise down will you?” He quickly closed his eyes tight again and turned to nestle his side deep into the chair, a motion intended to quickly inform this person he was not interested in socialising. He didn’t, however, take the hint. The man collapsed into the adjacent armchair with the weight and finesse of a collapsing building, and laughed allowed as he took the weight of his towering figure off his feet. He wasn’t too much older than Sheridan, probably in his mid to late thirties, handsome in a roguish sort of way.

“I’ve been all over this boat these past few weeks – thought I’d seen and met everybody! But I haven’t seen you – you just come aboard in Curacao?” Sheridan winced under the pressure of the mans explosive voice. He was used to Americans, he worked with them on a daily basis either in person or over the telephone, and whilst generally bolder in their behaviour than the British, he had found the majority perfectly civil and their company quite enjoyable, despite the stereotypical expectation that an Englishman would always look down on a Yank. This chap, was an exception. He even _looked_ American. Opening his eyes reluctantly, Sheridan found the mountain of a man staring directly at him in anticipation, a wide smile showing all his teeth, his eyes excitedly fixated on his new found target. Then standing out against the black ensemble the man wore, Sheridan noticed the emphasised dog collar – the man was a priest.

‘ _Christ save me, an American Priest…’_ He thought to himself. “Yes, I just boarded.”

“Thought so! You haven’t the same tan the rest of us have gotten. Business or pleasure?” His energy was apparently limitless.

“It’s a cruise liner – headed out to sea for a week. Take a guess.”

“Oh I see, just joined the boat late then – guess it’s hard for some to commit to a whole month’s cruise these days, ah the world’s spinning faster and faster these days! Guess that’s why a busy fella’ such as yourself would fancy a quite week cut off from the rest of the world in the middle of the Atlantic!” The priest clapped his hands with the sheer delight of finding a new friend, and reclined into his seat. Sheridan grimaced when he realised the man intended to stay.

“Frank Scott, Reverend – but I’m still mostly known by ‘Buzz’.” He held out a large, strong hand. Sheridan did not reach out to take it, but glared back with only one eye open. “Pleasure.” He then snapped it shut again.

“Me? I’m on my way to Africa!” The reverend continued, as if he’d genuinely imagined Sheridan enthusiastically asking to know more. “Quite a shout from my last parish in New Jersey – guess I should be flattered that they thought I’d proven I could handle myself in a fight!” He threw his head back as he laughed at his own joke, before calling the bartender over and ordering himself a lager.

“You aboard alone? Or just seeking shelter here from the ol’ ball and chain?”

This time, growing even shorter on patience, Sheridan didn’t even go as far as opening a single eye. “Not married – can’t say it’s ever been my cup of tea.”

“Nor me – and don’t worry I’m not gunna’ bulldoze you with all the holier-than-though bull, I’ve had my time with the fillies, man’s got to know what he’s giving up before he can decide its worth it.”

“And you instead chose celibacy and guilt willingly?” Sheridan snapped sarcastically, hoping his spite would convince the reverend this conversation was most certainly worth giving up. Certainly this gave the large man pause for a moment, but he never lost that wide smile. “Well I got my reasons pal. Same as a young man as handsome as you must have, for not being married – or at least not having some sort of company, especially stuck on a boat for a week!”

The conversation was not only irritating, but the reverend was striking a little too close to home for Sheridan’s liking. He opened his eyes with the intention of adopting a more direct approach to chasing off this nuisance. Reverend Scott caught the signs, but with no surprise. Sheridan could finally see that the man was no fool, and from the beginning had simply been choosing to persist in winding him up.

“Hey listen, don’t get upset. I’m not meaning to impose – but my approach to doing God’s work is less than conventional, it’s more direct. None of us have time to be discrete anymore. I could tell just by looking at ya, you needed a drinkin’ buddy.”

“And you find that works, do you?” Sheridan snarled, “Why sure I do. Sure I put a few noses out of joint, but I find I soon get through, it’s quicker than waiting weeks trying to intimidate someone into the confessional.”

The ship suddenly lurched to starboard, much harder than she had ever done before. Sheridan fell straight back into his chair, whilst Reverend ‘Buzz’ Scott lashed out with one arm to catch his pint glass before it slid off the end of the small table between them. The _‘Poseidon’_ hung there for a moment, before slowly rolling back over to port.

“I swear she never used to roll like that…” Sheridan murmured, slightly shaken by how sudden the rolling had happened. Scott didn’t even seem perturbed, and continued, “So here we go – I’ll prove to you my method works best. I risk putting your nose out of joint…”

“With all respect sir, you risked that five minutes ago when you opened your mouth the first time!” He growled, before taking a large gulp of scotch.

“I risk it… _again,_ by saying I see before me a man both on the run, and on the chase. You, my friend, are chasing something that you are, in truth, terrified of catching.” Sheridan didn’t reply, but glared in silence.

“Well, life is too short to be spent in fear. Its far too precious, and you should seize the day, and bid hell to the consequences!”

“Yes, what wonderful advice. That’s how empire’s are built, corporations… by charging in head on without fear of what impact you may have on others.”

Scott smiled, and leant forward, going so far as placing an unwelcome hand on Sheridan’s knee. He jerked slightly, the mans palm was warm and strong. “You are alone, a wealthy young man like you, alone. Whatever’s troubling you, its all about _you._ You’re not worried about what will happen to others, you’re worried about what others will do to _you.”_

Sheridan lashed out suddenly, enraged by the brazenness of this imbecile. He swiped his own glass off the table, and hung over the seated reverend for a second, poised to strike him, before spinning on his heels and storming out of the lounge.


	7. Chapter Seven – Confined below

“I’m sorry lad, but you’ll have to answer for your actions tomorrow. I can’t make excuses for how you behaved – what were you thinking?” Acre whined, standing in the small doorway to the cramped quarters Harry shared with three other stewards. Thankfully, they were still all busy up in the dining room and kitchens, and not privy to his monumental disgrace.

Harry wanted to answer Acre honestly, and explain that there was much more to his outburst than simply answering a Passenger back, but doing so would undoubtedly land him in an entirely different state of persecution, as well as Sheridan for that matter. Regardless of how much of a sod Sheridan was, Harry still couldn’t bring himself to hate him as much as he knew he should.

“I’ve said all I can say sir, I’ll just have to take what comes my way tomorrow.” He murmured, surrendering himself over.

“Unless you give us some reason for your outburst, they’ll turf you off the ship in Lisbon!” Acre was pleading for Harry to help him defend him, he was a stickler, but not a heartless one. When he saw that Harry was going to give nothing else away, he shook his head and began to pull the door closed. “I suggest you stay in here, don’t go wondering about, even in the crew areas. Not until this is sorted – one way or another.” And with that, he was gone, and Harry was left alone. He laid back onto his bunk, it was thumping and shaking in rhythm with the engines beneath. As the vessel pitched, he would roll from side to side. “Well… bugger.” He sighed aloud to himself. He didn’t know which aspect of the dinner time disaster to mull over first – whether his new found job was over after just three weeks, or what on earth Sheridan Ambrose thought he was trying to accomplish by coming onboard. ‘ _I’m here aren’t I?’_ His words hung in Harry’s mind. Why would he be there? Harry had left his employ under such hateful, almost scandalous circumstances that he had been certain of never seeing his employers face again.

Sheridan had burnt out the momentum with which he had fled the cocktail lounge in a rage, and now realising he had no final destination in mind, found himself aimlessly wondering along the forward section of the Cabin Class promenade, trying to keep his steps and stability in time with the rocking of the deck. He would leave Harry be for at least the rest of the night, he regretted immensely that the first consequence of his chasing Harry down had been to jeopardise his employment, and the guilt he suffered for not having fought harder at the time to take the blame for the incident was weighing heavily upon him – he had shown his cowardice in the face of public scrutiny, the very thing that had started this all off.

Tonight, he would turn in early. He would finish the circuit of the promenade deck, and then head back to his cabin. He would have preferred to have stayed in the lounge and licked his wounds with the aid of a few more drinks inside him, but his extraordinary experience with the yank pastor put pay to that idea. He couldn’t fathom how someone could be so intrusive, so bold – even an American. And the intrusion upon his person – the hand upon his knee, that had been a step too far. He wondered if that had always been the man’s game plan, to build up a dramatic conversation that could easily explain away a hand upon his person, if he took offense rather than welcomed the Reverends advance. Sheridan was certain of that, it had to have been an advance. The man had been far too handsome and well-groomed to have taken the oaths out of choice, to have given up so early on chasing the ‘fillies’ as he’d put it. That was probably why the church were sending him off to Africa – it was somewhere they could better keep a lid on his disreputable activities.

Again, Sheridan stopped to repeat his trail of thought back to himself. These reactions, these insulting, demeaning attitudes that he spouted so easily, came as a natural reaction, as instinctively as the raising of a hand to stifle a cough. All reactions that he had been well taught by his father, and later his mother and nannies. And so returned the shame.

Throughout the rest of the evening, the _‘Poseidon’_ s complement of over fifteen-hundred passengers gradually began to wind down their day, and turn in. In a fashion honouring the liner’s prestigious history as being one of the most luxurious vessels afloat, her cabins had all been prepared meticulously for the evening, with the hundreds of beds turned down, bedside lamps turned on in place of the glaring overhead lights, and cabin stewards were frequenting the accommodation decks, ready to answer any final calls for room service, hot drinks or fresh towels.

Throughout the night, whilst the Captain slept soundly, having handed over the watch to his second officer whilst the sea was only mildly turbulent, the ocean liner raced ever nearer to a violent storm ahead. By two o’clock the following morning, the Captain was awake, almost thrown from his bed by a sharp list to port. He called the bridge immediately, and learned of the strong winds and mounting swells ahead. After hanging up the phone, he had laid back onto his bunk, but had been unable to sleep. He’d watched the ceiling of his cabin, as he began to worry over how the ship’s stabilizers, damaged by his own inexperience, would fair against such persistent torment. He cursed fate too that night, that a storm should decide to park itself in their path barely a day after he had taken the gamble in not taking on Ballast before setting out into rougher seas. They were all lesson’s he would remember, and he vowed that never again would he make such mistakes again. His responsibilities to the ‘Travel Consortium Ltd’ were large, but he reminded himself that he had far, far larger ones – to his ship, it’s crew, and it’s passengers. In all, over twenty-two hundred people slept comfortably at that moment, so freely putting their fate in his hands. How grateful he was that none other than his chief engineer, knew that her stabilizers were practically useless, and that she was sailing top-heavy.


	8. Chapter Eight – The Storm

By the time morning had broken, the _‘Poseidon’_ was struggling. She was pitching at angles of almost ten degrees, scattering loose furniture and crockery throughout the ship. A strong gale held her constantly heeling to Starboard.

Regardless, with the efficiency and optimism they had been trained to maintain, the crew set about preparing the dining rooms for Breakfast, and the vast kitchens were fired up in anticipation of a large breakfast service.

However, many passengers had awoken feeling incredibly unwell, sea-sickness had swept through the ships populace like a plague, and many others were almost too nervous to dare attempt moving about through the ship whilst she was moving so violently.

One such couple had been the Pearce sisters. Barbara Pearce, was always an early riser, and had sat nervously on the small sofa beneath the portholes, leaping with fright every time a wave had risen high enough up the side of the ship to submerge them entirely. Her sister, Marion Pearce, was far less concerned with the crashing waves outside, than she was about how she was expected to tease her hair into submission whilst having to use both her hands just to remain upright on her stool. Marion’s fixation with trying to decorate herself beyond the minimum expected of a respectful lady, grated upon Barbara no end. Barbara had been married since she had been in her very early twenties, and had never really found the time, or the necessity to parade around like a peacock on a quest for male attention. Neither did she feel that any woman doing so could hope to find herself in the lord’s good graces. It had therefore been a lifelong burden, having a sister as promiscuous as Marion. Barbara had hoped to see her sister settle down one day, and when that hadn’t happened, she had hoped the affliction of advancing years would slow her down. It was with utter dismay therefore, that Barbara would still have to wait for her sister, now pushing well into her sixties, to apply all manner of cosmetics and make-up.

Marion rose finally from her stool, satisfied that her hair was suitable, and proceeded to begin rustling through a specific pocket of her case.

“Oh Marion no, for goodness sake!” Barbara protested, trying to push herself up from the sofa to display her sincerity, but being thrown straight back down by the ship’s downward motion as it broke through a wave. Marion pulled out two large pads, and with a mischievous smile and school-girl giggle, stuffed a pad down each side of her bra.

“They’re going to carry on getting lower my dear, you do realise that don’t you? You’re fighting a loosing battle.” Barbara snapped, finally making it up onto her feet.

“Well excuse me Babs, if I won’t go down without a fight. Some of us aren’t content tucking our breasts into our socks.” Marion bit back, before giggling again. Both were British, but Marion had acquired a more modern, casual accent that came from frequenting the cinema, whereas Barbara, staunchly conservative and proper, spoke with the traditional, upper-working class accent.

“I wish you would stop calling me that old girl. You know I hate it.” Barbara sighed, wishing as she regularly would that she had her husband as her chaperone, rather than having been lumbered with her sister from the day she became a widow.

“Now stop your chattering and help me get down to that dining room.” Marion smiled, holding out an arm for her sister as she opened the cabin door. Without hesitation, Barbara dutifully took her sisters arm, and both ventured out into the twisting hallway, reluctantly dependant on each other.

The two ladies had to wait as the next cabin door along was swiftly opened before them, and an older gentleman appeared in their way. Marion was all to prompt with a wide smile and quick flutter of the eyelashes – for a man the same age as her, he was handsome. He was well tanned, which she hoped was indicative of extensive travel, which often suggested position and means.

“Well good morning.” She beamed, her sister looking away in embarrassment at the blatant flirtations of her sister. The man smiled back, but in a respectful manner rather than amusement or interest.

“Good morning, ladies.” He responded, in clear English but with a clearly German accent. Marion was poised to go in for the kill, when at the same time, Barbara pulled her arm in an effort to reign her in, and the old man was joined outside his cabin by an extremely young, beautiful blonde. She barely noticed the two ladies waiting to pass as she locked the door behind herself.

“Lets go then, are you ready?” She reached out and put a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Yes Emilia, I’m ready.” Following behind, but with far less enthusiasm, Marion was watching the pair with a curious, almost desperate eye.

“She has to be his daughter. That’s all.” She commented, with a slight bitterness apparent in her voice.

“It is most likely my dear. But I thought by this point you’d be used to men turning you over for younger models either way.” Barbara realised just how spiteful the comment had been as soon as she said it, but couldn’t quite bring herself to apologise. In silence the rest of the way, they made their way down to breakfast.

Reuben Altman had been seated alone for Breakfast at the moment the dining room was opened, as he had feared it would be busy, but he had instead soon found that the motion of the rolling ‘ _Poseidon’_ would mean only those with a strong stomach would be attending. A large German family had passed through and bid him good morning, but had been unable to join him due to the size of their group – eight in total.

It was then with satisfaction he saw Emilia Fisher enter the room, and notice him instantly. She tugged her father across to his table. “Father, this is the man I was telling you about, who saved me from that Mrs Meredith up on deck.” Rueben stood, dropping his spoon down into his half-eaten grapefruit. He regarded her father with a reserved but charming smile and held out a welcoming hand.

Ricardo Fisher was quick to accept his handshake, and offered his thanks whilst holding direct eye contact. His grey eyes were quite striking, and Reuben noticed their intensity from beneath those thickening, grey eyebrows. Ricardo had then poised himself to move on, when Emilia had held out a hand to stop him – “Why don’t we enjoy breakfast together?” She innocently suggested, noting Reuben was eating alone. “I know we’re supposed to sit where they put us, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to be busy does it?” She added.

After a moment’s thought and hesitation, Reuben quickly composed a welcoming grin and held out a hand gesturing for them to join his table. “Please, I would enjoy the company.” He could feel that Ricardo Fisher had still not yet looked away, but was still firmly fixated upon Rueben, but nevertheless the man thanked him and accepted a seat.

Breakfast continued to end up a solemn affair for most – families and groups of friends were incomplete, many confined to their beds or bathrooms, and so the atmosphere in the cavernous hall had felt almost church-like. The conversation between the Fishers and Reuben Altman had been civil, but light, with only pleasant small talk occurring to fill the time between courses, mainly spurred on my Emilia, who was apparently oblivious to the quiet, smouldering curiosity that her father and Reuben were sharing over one another.

The German family, the Augenblick’s, spoke excitedly about returning home to Germany for the last few days of the Christmas period. Whilst serving them their tea and coffee, Acre had been politely drawn into their conversation when they had asked what time he would have off from his duties on the _‘Poseidon’_ to visit family for Christmas. He had maintained a care-free and enthusiastic demeanor, whilst all the while fearing for the fate of that poor young man he had confined to his cabin the night before – as soon as breakfast was over, Harry Perkins was to meet with the Food and Beverage Manager, and Acre knew he was duty bound to offer his testimony of what he had witnessed.

Harold and Hannah Meredith had arrived late – not because they suffered with sea sickness, but Harold’s being blind made any journey that much harder, and under the conditions of the storm raging outside, Hannah had been required not only to guide her husband through the ship, but also check that he had a firm hold on handrails or fixed furnishing, should the vessel roll suddenly and Harold loose his footing. A number of housekeeping staff and other crewmen had encountered the struggling pair and offered assistance, but Harold Meredith was a proud man, and even with a small measure of reluctance in his wife’s case, had come to accept only her help whenever he could. When they had arrived, the majority of the passengers had already left, and the Meredith’s found themselves sharing with only the few that were in no hurry to leave, at enjoying a further round of tea or coffee.

Sheridan had remained at his table, keenly watching the doorways through to the kitchens and service corridors, trying to catch a glimpse of Harry. By now however, it had become apparent Harry had not been working through the breakfast service, and with little alternative, Sheridan called the familiar steward, Acre, over.

“I wish to speak again with the young man that collided with me yesterday, you remember?” He asked casually, holding out his tea cup to see through the rouse he had set up as an excuse to summon Acre over with. The scotsman began to pour obligingly, but a regretful expression washed over him.

“It is extremely generous for you to trouble yourself over the young man sir…” It was not lost on Sheridan how belittling it was to refer to Harry as the ‘young man’, when Sheridan was only a few years his senior, but was afforded the title of ‘sir’ simply because of his wealth and station.

“But you won’t see Harry in the passenger areas again I expect, such an incident during his first sailing, will surely see him relieved of his position.”

Sheridan swallowed hard, and could easily picture Harry’s expression of despair and humiliation – after all, he’d seen them both before.

“It was not my intention nor my wish that anyone be reprimanded… would it be possible for me to put in a good word?” He struggled to stop his request from sounding like he was begging, which in truth, he wished he could do.

“I can certainly pass on that you hold no ill feeling to the young man in question, sir. It’s very generous of you to be so sympathetic, but this is really a matter of conduct in general, rather than a reaction to any complaint that may or may not have been received from you sir. It wouldn’t do for a steward not to be punished where others would be.” Acre placed the fresh pot of tea down on the table, and smiled, waiting to be dismissed.

Sheridan sighed and looked down into his lap with regret. “Then when all is said and done, I wonder if you could see that Harry comes and finds me this evening, so I may pass on my personal apologies.” He could see Acre’s eyes growing more perplexed, and consequentially, suspicious. “It is simply the honourable thing to do, I feel. Ask him to meet me in the aft lounge at seven o’clock.”

Acre smiled again, “It is our job to please, sir. I will pass on your request to Harry, and see that he is granted permission to come up this evening.” With that, he was gone back towards the kitchens.


	9. Chapter Nine – Wishing for a cataclysm

Broadway was as busy as ever, the majority of the crew, stewards, cooks and housekeeping staff being well seasoned and having sturdy sea legs. Many could stride at a pace from the _‘Poseidon’_ s bow to stern as she heeled and pitched, with barely a flinch left or right.

Harry passed straight through the waves of men and women that swept past him, as if he hadn’t even seen them. He was in a daze, and all he could bring himself to do was focus on the deck ahead as he aimlessly wondered forward. It had happened, he’d been given the sack. Three weeks he’d lasted, three miserable weeks. He wanted to start planning what he would tell his parents this time, what excuse he could give that they’d believe and perhaps not hold against him, but the feeling of utter failure and hopelessness was numbing. Harry had never assumed he would amount to much, and had never really aspired to anything beyond his abilities. Yet over and over, he’d met with rejection and failure in even the simplest of positions, and he was convinced now that fate was not on his side.

He looked about himself, at the long service corridor, the overhead pipes, the dim lighting, the ships rumblings and gurgling’s as she propelled herself full ahead through the sea, and lamented for this modest new place he’d almost been ready to call home.

Not watching where he was going, people kept bouncing off him or swiping his shoulders with theirs as they hurried past – many paused or stopped to apologise, but found their words fell upon deaf ears. Marie, the ships hairdresser, a sweet but simple young lady, had been hurrying past with a new model upon which she was going to style a passengers wig, and had thumped head-first into Harry as she rounded a bend.

“Sorry love! Didn’t see ya!” She giggled as she swept her own strands of hair from her eyes. Harry could see her, and felt himself give her a half-smile, if only to be civil enough to escape the situation without aggravating her and as a consequence, inviting a some sort of disgruntled continuation of the unwanted encounter. Marie paused, waiting for a reply, but as the delay grew from peculiar to awkward, he giggled again and quickly made her exit.

Behind the automatic smile, Harry was actually seething with resentment – how little Marie probably appreciated being in such a hurry, being so busy. He was now unemployed, useless to anyone, in fact he was now a leech living and feeding off the body of the _‘Poseidon’_ whilst contributing nothing in return. As the anger and hatred surged, how he wanted to vent it outward at somebody, at anybody, at Sheridan _bloody_ Ambrose! Yet he simply chose the closest thing to him – the body of the great vessel, the ship itself. In his blind hatred, how he wished everything around him would just die, explode, cease to be so functional and useful, and simply collapse into chaos. He wished the creaking old girl would suddenly succumb to the waves that were perpetually reaching to swamp her, and that she would suddenly sink, taking everyone her – including himself – no, foremost, himself.

He was so absorbed in his resentment that Harry didn’t initially distinguish his being pulled aside by two massive hands from just yet another slanting of the deck beneath him. In a fleeting moment, Harry found he had been slung by a large figure into the smaller of the two wine stock rooms. As he began to register that something was happening, Harry looked around himself, and then straight up into the stare of his friend ‘Tex’.

“Now son, you listen to old Dewey. I know you’ve had a tough racket, words already gotten around. But that ain’t no reason not to be decent to a sweet li’ girl like Marie. That was just plain rude, son!” Tex held Harry still by both shoulders up against the wall, firmly to make his point, but not hard enough to come off as aggressive. Harry didn’t reply, but let his gaze drop to his feet in shame. He began to cry.

“Oh now stop that boy, stop that. That won’t solve no problem.” Tex tried to hush Harry’s sobs as he wrestled him deeper into the stock room away from the door left open out onto Broadway. “Now come on, try and pull yourself together! Come now, snap out of it!” Tex shook Harry sharply once.

“Its so not fair, it’s not fair!” Harry whined aloud, wiping away the last of the tears that he hadn’t been able to suppress.

“Now I don’t know the whole story son, but I know the outcome. Life’s rarely fair – them folk’s upstairs in the salons and suites, they always win, always get what they want. They get everything first. Us down here, we get a regular beatin’ with the shit stick! But you’ll find your feet someplace else.” Tex tried to smile, but his mouthful of chewing Tobacco made it difficult, and quite ugly despite his teddy bear-like face.

“Oh Tex – I’m sorry for kicking off, I’m sorry. It’s just I’ve tried to find my feet so many times, this really feels like the end of the road.”

Tex let go of Harry’s shoulders, satisfied he was past any risk of hysterics. “It often feels that way son. Look at ol’ Tex. I should have been set up with a comfy home and little lady beside me decades ago. But I’m still stuck on this old tub pouring wine…at my age! It feels so shameful…” His face looked, for the first time, entirely absent of jest or optimism, his eyes mournful and distant, until he came back down to Harry’s level. “But like ol’ Tex, you’ll find your way, and trust me, it ain’t all pain and sufferin’, there’s plenty of fun to be had!” He began to resume what he’d been doing before, grabbing a broom and starting to gather a field of shattered glass on the floor where a particularly sharp motion of the ship had destroyed an entire case of Beaujolais.

Harry was hesitant to reply, he knew the polite thing to do was agree and say he saw Tex’s point, but the truth was he didn’t, not anymore. In fact, he now looked upon Tex with an overpowering sense of pity, and dread that this poor man was a vision of his own future – alone, aimlessly wandering with no real purpose or anything to show for his time spent on the face of the earth.

“I just wanted to get started, to get some sort of money in the bank, before I really started planning. I won’t even get that now, for all my efforts here.” Harry sighed, before pushing himself up and away from the wall upon which Tex had planted him. He was still keen to scurry away and be on his own, so began to step back towards the open door. “But thank you Tex, I appreciate what you are saying.”

The large American held out a hand to stop him. “Now just hang on son, I got something for you, in case we don’t see each other again, at least without that old French bastard watching over my shoulder!” He turned away quickly, and span back holding a dusty old bottle of red wine.

“It’s a good one – rare vintage and all, but not too rare to raise an eyebrow if you were to sell it back on dry land…” Tex smiled, holding it out to Harry. “Such a shame it got broken with the rest of this crate…, it’s worth a couple of thousand dollars.”

Harry took the bottle, dusting off the label, ashamed that the vintage on the label meant nothing to him. “But Tex… if you were found out…”

“Then don’t get caught with it son! Put it in your jacket! Anyway… I’m already runnin’ the same risk with the bottle I got stashed away for yours truly!” He winked, before resuming the brushing up of smashed glass.


	10. Chapter Ten – The Photograph

Hannah Meredith hated leaving her husband alone, especially somewhere she knew was so unfamiliar to him. But he’d been content left listening to some music in the lounge, whilst she had nipped away on her little mission to try and placate her rising curiosity. She was no fool, and under any normal situation where she’d given someone a second glance due to their familiarity, would be able to very quickly brush it off. Yet that young girl that had boarded at the last minute in Curacao, was so incredibly familiar that it had been eating away at Hannah all night, and acknowledging the fact that she risked making herself look stupid and in doing so possibly upsetting a father and his daughter innocently enjoying a holiday together.

Hoping to circumvent the need to bother the young girl again, as she had seemed rather irritated after the first encounter, Hannah had instead tracked down the young gentleman who seemed to have won the girls trust. Hannah knew they were not prior acquaintances, and she distinctly remembered seeing the young man on-board since the ‘ _Poseidon’_ had departed New York, over a week before the girl and her father had boarded.

A steward had been as accommodating as to inform Hannah that the man had been a keen squash player, and had booked a standing eleven o’clock session in the sun deck racket court. Hannah felt cruel, as she couldn’t help but notice the speed and ease with which she traversed the decks of the ocean liner without having to be mindful of Harold blindly pursuing her on the same route. It was liberating, which filled her with even further guilt.

As Hannah entered the racket court – she was impressed with how Reuben Altman was able to keep up with the squash ball as he kept ricocheting it off the adjacent wall, whilst the court was rocking all the while with the rolling of the ship.

“Careful! You could twist an ankle!” She pleasantly called out over the repeating ‘ _thwack’_ the ball made as it hit the wall or his racket. Taken slightly off guard, Rueben span around and let the returning squash ball fall to the floor. He was confused, clearly, but swiftly composed himself with a charming grin. His large, deep brown eyes glistened, suggesting a genuine happiness to see her.

“Hello! You’re brave exploring whilst the ship’s moving quite this much!” He laughed,

“Not quite as brave as the man dancing around a racket court!” She played back, gesturing to the court with one arm. “I’m so very sorry to disturb your game, Mr…?”

“Altman, Reuben Altman.” He leant the racket down on the floor to give her his full attention.

“I’m Hannah Meredith, you may recall we sort-of met out on deck yesterday.” Her voice was apologetic and submissive, hoping her intrusion wouldn’t frustrate him.

“Of course, you ran into Emilia.” He agreed.

“Well – this may seem rude, perhaps more for _Emilia_ than you, but…” Hannah made a mental note of the name that she hadn’t been able to gather during the encounter on deck. “…I was wondering if I could ask you about her. I’m going to sound like such a nosey busy-body, but I assure you I’m not. I genuinely feel I know her from somewhere, and even her father seems familiar to me – do you know them well?”

Reuben smiled back at the amusing lady, but he knew too well from past experiences, that people this intrusive could end up causing him serious problems further down the line. He was furious that even out here in the middle of the Atlantic, there was someone that could throw a spanner in the works.

“Hardly at all, I’m sorry to say. I only met them at the same time you did, when they boarded yesterday. I’ve simply struck up a casual rapport with Emilia, but I don’t know either her or her father personally.” He had to watch every word he spoke, it never got any easier.

“Oh I see… of course.” Hannah was clearly disappointed that the trail was seemingly ending here. “Their surname, would you have happened to catch it?”

Reuben could feel his cheeks flushing with apprehension, and with every thought that raced through his mind, he knew his delay I replying would come across as suspicious, and further entice this woman to meddle in the affair – he had to make a decision, and quickly. How much could this woman learn from their surname? She could still learn the name from a loose-tongued crewman, but what further research could she conduct whilst out to sea, even knowing their name? – very little.

“Fisher, that’s it I think.” He replied, slightly too harshly than he meant to. Hannah didn’t reply, but stared directly back at Reuben as she processed the name.

Hannah had heard an alarm bell somewhere in her mind – the name, and the face, now she was more certain than ever that there was a connection, somewhere, and that it had crossed her path before. She could tell Reuben was growing inquisitive too, so quickly replied; “Oh well. Means nothing to me… I really must be losing my mind!” She joked, “I’m so sorry to have bothered you. It was just her face… so familiar.” Intending to leave the conversation at that, Hannah began to leave.

“It happens to us all, it could be something as simple as a picture in a book, a photograph in a magazine…” Reuben was relieved that she was relaxing her interrogation, and attempted to confidently end this encounter on an innocent, pleasant note.

Yet, for Hannah Meredith, Reuben had unintentionally placed a piece of the jigsaw. ‘A photograph… _a photograph!’_ Hannah murmured to herself. ‘ _That’s it!’_

With an accomplished smile, Hannah waved Reuben goodbye from the doors and vanished quickly.

Reuben couldn’t help but feel concerned about just how happily Mrs Meredith had seemed as she left – that had not been the parting of a deflated woman. He hoped she would not surface again, otherwise something may end up having to be done about Hannah Meredith, and he prayed it would not come to that.

Hannah chose not to travel the length of the ship to the lounge where she had left Harold, but chose the shorter route directly to their cabin, which was simply a quick elevator ride down several decks. Whilst money had not been an issue for the Meredith’s, both being accomplished authors, having a cabin with a view had not been on their list of priorities, and so they had settled for a cabin down on a lower deck, and allowed themselves to instead enjoy the money saved on more shore excursions and souvenirs.

Upon reaching the cabin, Hannah pulled out the suitcase that was carrying copy of several of their published works. Whilst Hannah had always written Fiction, Harold was renowned for his historical works, which since his car accident, she had co-written with her husband, taking his dictation. The last they had written in this manner, together, was the first that came to hand. It was an investigation into members of the Nazi party during World War Two that had escaped justice and fled. The picture she was looking for was two-thirds of the way through, which she found within a few seconds. The photograph had peaked her interest at the time of writing the book, because of how beautiful the home it depicted had been – nestled at the foot of the Bavarian Alps. When she had found the loose photograph in Harold’s research papers, she had not known who the family stood in front of the photographed home had been, and had passed a fleeting comment on how handsome the family were, and specifically how beautiful the mother had been.

“You’re right of course, my dear” Harold had said, back then, “But I must disappoint you when I tell you that pretty lady is the wife of Hershel Fischer – a Colonel stationed at Treblinka.” Hannah had been shocked when Harold had told her that – but also fascinated, at how innocent and sweet the picture could still appear, whilst all the while the father in the picture had been, by all accounts, a brutal monster with a taste for cruelty that rivalled his superior Kurt Franz.

Hannah took the book and sat slowly down onto the small sofa, as she began to look closer at the photograph. The woman, the mother who’s beauty she had admired, was the very image of Emilia – with a steady finger, Hannah moved down the page to the young daughter at the woman’s feet, only a baby. ‘ _My god… is that you, Emilia?’_ Hannah said aloud to herself. The book listed the family as ‘ _Hershel Fischer, his wife Mia Fischer, and their daughter, Mila, enjoying a short holiday at their summer home’._

With a shocking realisation creeping over her, Hannah then looked back to the father, to Hershel Fischer, the Nazi Colonel that had fled and was yet to be found. It didn’t look like Emilia’s father – the man in the picture stood tall and proud, with a full head of dark hair – but it was a photograph twenty-four years out of date, she couldn’t be sure. Dropping the book to her lap, Hannah reclined and closed her eyes. She processed her suspicions, the striking resemblance Emilia bore to the missing Mia Fischer, and the further conclusion that could mean the old man travelling with her was Hershel himself. Could he have been hiding so well, across the Atlantic for all these years? Others like him had done so, it wasn’t impossible.

Would she tell Harold? Could she tell him? Either way, she had no idea what either of them could do with the information. She realised, her pesky curiosity had turned quite suddenly into panic, and fear.


	11. Chapter 11 – The last night

The day at sea had been a tense one, hardly a glowing advertisement for the cruises the ‘Travel Consortium Ltd’ hoped to continue to offer with the ageing _‘Poseidon’_. The hospitality crew had to work harder under such poor weather conditions to preserve the standard and efficiency of all services promised to the passengers, yet it was almost in vain, as most passengers barely made it out from their cabins, choosing to endure their sea sickness in private.

As the late dinner service approached, the engine room crew were under pressure from the Captain to try and do something about the stabilizers, anything to try and trim the great ocean liner out again. But the time they could devote to the stabilizers was limited – the new owners of the ship had chosen to forego replacing much of the engine rooms failing equipment, and had ordered further overhauls of pumps, dynamo’s and generators that had already been overhauled countless times before.

Awaiting dinner, those with less sensitivity to the rough seas were sat already dressed in their formal attire, enjoying cocktails in the lounge. The Rosens had been sat with the two Pearce sisters and the mysterious Mrs Wilma Lewis, who usually chose her own company over a crowd. Unlike Mrs Lewis, Belle Rosen thoroughly enjoyed the company of the British, and had listened to and questioned both Barbara and Marion Pearce with great enthusiasm – she’d never been to England, or even Europe for that matter. However when Marion Pearce had begun jesting and giggling over the numerous men that she had found intriguing on the ship, she’d very quickly lost her audience. Wilma Lewis had made her excuses and retreated to the bar, where she’d positioned herself two seats away from a quiet, small little man in a bright chequered jacket, whom she seemed to know.

Belle waited a few more minutes, so as not to make it apparent that it had been a race between her and Wilma Lewis to be the first to escape Marion’s tasteless, awkward repertoire, before too slipping away to ‘speak to her friend over there’. Of course once the large lady and risen from her chair and dragged Manny along with her, it had been the start of a quick decision upon whom to force herself upon, to ensure Barbara Pearce didn’t take offense to her leaving so suddenly. Her eyes then fell upon the lone young man in the corner, handsome and well-built, curled up in an unwelcoming posture in an armchair. Adorning her signature grin, Belle Rosen welcomed herself and Manny into the young mans company, dropping her considerable weight into the seat opposite.

Sheridan Ambrose cursed to himself, was it impossible to be left alone in this lounge? Was having his back turned to everyone else not a clear enough sign that he did not covet social interaction?

“Hello? You’re new on-board aren’t you?” She chirped, leaning around to try and make eye contact with him.

“Boarded yesterday, yes.” He replied with all the civility he could muster. Belle’s explosive enthusiasm was entirely unwarranted, but was her way of not giving in to the young man’s sulking.

“Well I thought so, we hadn’t seen you around before. Is your wife with you?” As charming as Belle was, her husband Manny would often remind her that she was not subtle. Manny rolled his eyes and playfully jolted her with his elbow. “Belle… honestly!”

“No, no… I’m travelling alone.” Belle noted how well-spoken he was, another English person for her to interrogate on life across the Atlantic. Before she put her foot in an awkward situation, she glanced to his hand to check there was no wedding ring – if this man was brooding over a broken-marriage, then enquiring about his love life may not be the best topic for conversation, yet there was no ring.

“Such a shame, for a young man such as you. All the experiences you’ll have on a cruise like this – they are always better shared with someone.” She beamed, taking Manny’s hand in affection. The old man smiled back at his delightful wife – how soft she was, so loving.

Sheridan sighed, irritated. This woman was clearly inexperienced in travel, it was apparent from her over-excitement, the entire experience was clearly new to her. He saw no opportunity for worthwhile conversation with such a person, who was so clearly of such limited means in comparison to himself.

“It suits me just fine. I travel all over the world, regularly. It looses its appeal after a while.” He glanced over to the entrance, wondering if that steward had properly relayed his message to Harry, and whether Harry would even choose to turn up. He reluctantly returned his attention to the Rosens, as Belle had already begun to speak.

“Oh how wonderful, to see so much of the world. But you can’t say there aren’t still so many exciting people to meet? We lived in Coney Island, had a little shop, barely left that spot for over a decade. Yet every day, we met new people, wonderful people. So just imagine how many people you must have met!”

“Belle! Maybe the chap would just like to be left alone? You’re bothering him.” Manny tried to gently tell his wife what the man’s body language clearly wasn’t affectively getting across to her. The blatancy of Manny’s comment, as polite as it was, embarrassed Sheridan, and he again realised just how unpleasant he could be.

“My… apologies. I know I must seem rude, it is nothing personal.” He managed, quietly. “Truth is, I’m on this ship for a purpose other than a holiday, and to top it off, I’ve risked an awful lot to be here. It’s all weighing on my mind, you understand.” He was both stunned and impressed by how much information he’d so freely and quickly surrendered. Belle sat upright and grinned with success, as she managed to get the reaction she’d been trying to get, for this lonely soul to open up to her. She reached out with her chubby little hand and put it down on his.

“I’m Belle, Belle Rosen, and this is my husband Manny. Whilst this certainly is a holiday, we too have an anterior motive. We’re on our way to Israel, our son and his wife live there now, and have just given birth to our first grandchild.”

Sheridan turned slightly to face them. “My name’s Ambrose, Lord Ambrose – _Sheridan_. Then you have a pleasant reason for travelling.”

Belle took in a short breath of astonishment as she contemplated the young man was titled. “We do, most certainly. May I ask what your business?” She tried her luck. Sheridan shifted in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, yet he seemed to look at her with some measure of suspicion, that perhaps he could clear his troubled mind my divulging at least some small part of his burden upon this lady.

“Well, it’s very complicated, and certainly not a situation I could elaborate on entirely. Let’s just say, that I’ve made some mistakes, and I’m trying to see if I can put them right. There is someone on this ship that I have wronged, greatly. Whilst they may see our situation as closed, I feel I owe it to them to try and put it right, if I can.” Belle’s face went blank as she mulled over the cryptic reply. Then she giggled mischievously as she felt her powers of deduction setting in - a trait acquired after many, many detective novels.

“You’re not married, travelling alone, and yet you’ve travelled across the world to make something up to someone? I have it - you let a woman slip through your fingers, and now you’re on the chase to win her back?” Belle cheered, certain she had cracked the case.

“Belle! Give it a rest!” Manny chuckled, apologetically. Sheridan looked straight at Belle, sternly, considering his reply. Many times before he’d been questioned this way, and every time it had triggered his signature temper tantrum, yet with Mrs Rosen, he felt surprisingly at ease.

“Well why else would this young man have such a puss on his face? He’s love sick!” She cheered again, slapping her hands down onto her large thighs with accomplishment.

“I will go as far to say you are along the right lines, Mrs Rosen, yes.” He even offered the sweet old lady a brief smile.

At that moment, above the gentle noises of soft conversation and the creaking of the ship, both Sheridan and the Rosen’s heard the sound of the doors swing open. Harry Perkins, still dressed in his steward’s uniform, appeared. His eyes were red, he’d been crying, and his hair that the passengers had only ever seen neatly combed back, was messy and hung partly over his face. He looked nervous, and deathly pale, as if he’d discovered a corpse. He panned the cluster of passengers in the lounge, until his searching gaze met with Sheridan’s. The pair both froze, their shared stare lasting several seconds.

Belle followed the line of sight between them, and in a moment of realisation, sank back into her chair, absorbing the situation that had suddenly been laid bare before her. Far too many times Manny had warned her that her abrupt and relentless digging into people’s personal affairs would land her in hot water, and this time he had been right. She felt a nervous, unpleasant churning in her stomach as she looked back and forth between Sheridan and Harry. She tried to speak, tried to break the tension in her cheerful way, but stuttered and tripped over the words she couldn’t manage to force out. Embarrassed and uncertain, she simply chose to rise out of her seat, and beckoned Manny to do the same.

“Where we off to mamma?” Manny asked aloud, entirely oblivious to all that was happening. Sheridan looked up at the large lady standing over him, her sizeable figure casting a massive shadow upon him, as if that darkness carried the full weight of her judgement. He swallowed hard, and was reminded all too suddenly of the risk he was taking – this reaction, would be the new norm wherever he went. Filled with shame, Sheridan didn’t lash out or fire off an insulting remark, but simply looked down into his lap, waiting for the Rosen’s to storm off.

Belle tried to speak again, stammering again. Sheridan could only imagine what a woman of her age would choose to say, if she had it figured out as far as it seemed. Instead, he jumped at the touch of her hand again on his shoulder. He looked up to find her leaning down.

“I’d better leave you now, to see to your business. But… if you need some company later, if you just want to talk. I’ll do my best to understand.” Her expression was stern, and certainly unsure, but Sheridan could see sympathy in her eyes. As Belle and Manny left, she smiled back, first at Sheridan, but also at the unkempt steward that had just arrived.


	12. Chapter Twelve – Is it too late?

It did turn the heads of a number of passengers, seeing a Steward - Harry Perkins, sit so freely beside a passenger, but it was thankfully only due to his uniform, and such an apparent breach of order was hardly worth more than a few seconds of attention, before most returned to their prior conversations.

“You look terrible.” Sheridan had rehearsed his opening line more than once, but in the moment had been unable to think of any other words.

Harry’s bottom lip was still quivering, showing his emotions were still running high, and that the crying had only recently subsided. “As ever, you look as though you own the world.” Harry quietly snapped back, reaching down and taking Sheridan’s glass of scotch, taking a bold gulp from it.

“What’s happened? What have they said to you?” Sheridan’s tone was softer now, concerned.

“That’s right, it’s always about what people are saying…” Harry spat, looking away.

“Look for Christ sake, will you stop looking for ways to attack me just long enough to tell me what in the hell happened?” He bit back.

Harry looked as though he was going to start crying again as he remembered the conversation over in his head, and how angry and lost he had felt ever since. “Well what do you expect they did? They fired me!”

Sheridan fell back into his chair, as if the response had been a punch to the chest. He’d suspected, almost known that this would be the case, but had dared not admit it to himself.

Harry looked almost insulted at Sheridan’s surprise. “You must have known that was what they’d do! I mean, how many other nameless servants have you had sent packing just because one of us spilt your coffee or didn’t fill the salt cellar?” Harry was struggling to contain his anger, and had to look anywhere but directly at Sheridan, for fear he would either strike him, or erupt into tears once again.

As ever, as he expected, Sheridan’s impulse was to argue, to fight back and defend himself, but he’d been working on it, ever since he’d left London, he’d been biting his tongue and even offering thanks to those around him, even when in his eyes, they’d simply fulfilled their obligated duties.

“I’ve been trying. You must believe me, I really have. But I won’t achieve anything overnight.” Harry absorbed Sheridan’s reply, and sat mulling it over as he bit his lip as hard as he could to stop it quivering.

Suddenly, amid the heated atmosphere, both were shaken from their thoughts when the ship seemed to take flight! The floor seemed to lift beneath them, pushing them skyward, before as quickly as it had risen, the _‘Poseidon’_ came crashing back down, falling over violently to port, where she continued to hang. Everything loose was sent crashing across the room, the shattering of glasses and bottles in the bar drowning out almost everything else. As the others in the lounge cried out in shock, or called out for a steward to help them back into their seats or to their feet, the ship slowly, uneasily began to pull back upright.

Harry had fallen from his chair to his knees, and Sheridan leant forward to take his arm and help him back into his seat. “Jesus wept, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, she never used to roll this badly. The old girl’s had it.” Sheridan complained.

“I wouldn’t know, would I. First time onboard… and now my last.” Harry sighed, apparently relenting his aggression, the fright of the ships sudden listing taking the wind out of his sails. “Just tell me, why are you here?”

Sheridan leant forward. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m here to tell you… that I’m _sorry._ I’m so… so very _sorry._ And, I want you to come home.”

Harry tittered sarcastically, “Where’s home for me? I thought for a while it was at Ambrose Hall – in my cosy little rats nest in the attic servants quarters. But I was fired if you recall…”

“Don’t be so bloody difficult Harry, you know well enough what I mean. Can’t you see I’m trying to fix this?” Sheridan snapped, irritated by Harry’s determination to turn every comment he made into a point of argument for arguments sake.

“Then tell me… what do you think this is?” Harry finished the last of Sheridan’s scotch that had survived the ships tilting on the very edge of the table between them. He watched Sheridan squirm, and attempt to reply two or three times before stopping himself, determined to word it with caution, always with caution.

“It’s an affair…, isn’t it? A _love_ affair.” Sheridan felt a wave of shame and humiliation race through him as he said the word, a word he had been brought up never to express, or to banter about freely in public. “And I want you to come back with me, to Ambrose Hall. We can find a way, somehow, to make it work.”

Harry’s more sincere side had been enticed to listen, he was impressed that Sheridan had actually come out with _that_ word. If nothing else had changed, that alone was a step forward that deserved to be recognised.

“I never asked for any of this. I was content working for you, being seen but not heard, it was _you_ that started it. But when I did try and make it work, it was _you_ that devastated me, and threw me out. How can I ever come back from that? And now, you’ve seen fit to pursue me, and ruin the best chance at finding my feet again I’d had in months?”

Sheridan heard a certainly, a determination in Harry’s voice that was fresh, he could tell there was a resolve him Harry that there had never been before, to ensure this went no further.

“So tell me straight – is it too late? Is there nothing I can say that will change your mind? I came all this way…”

“All this way? To me, this was the adventure of a lifetime, in a month I’ve travelled what feels like a world away, to places I never thought I’d see in my life. To you, this is nothing. You can throw your money and arrogant tantrums around and be anywhere you want in a heartbeat. Don’t make out that just because you paid more than the going rate to catch the ship up, that it was any great feat.” Harry snarled, resentful. He knew how much it riled Sheridan up when he used his status and wealth against him – two things he was most proud of.

Sheridan glared back, hurt and angry. “I have risked everything I have for this, I bailed on the Jim Duncan meetings to be here, to find you. They could try and cut me out of the project for doing so… and you don’t even…”

“that’s right, that’s the _real_ Sheridan coming back to me. Remind me about how much money you stand to lose over me at any given moment. Well guess what, I wish you and your fortune all the very best for the future, I hope it keeps you happy.” Harry rose from his chair abruptly. The sudden eruption brought many gazes back their way, and Harry watched with further disappointment as Sheridan chose to look their way rather than at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t serve to humiliate you any further.” He then pulled a crumpled pound note from his pocket, and slammed it down on the table. “Wouldn’t want you to be out of pocket for the drink.”

Harry stormed out of the lounge, and for the first time, Sheridan found he was overcome with an emotion that outweighed the shame, and regardless of the eyes set upon him from every corner of the lounge, he dropped his head into his hands, and cried.


	13. Chapter Thirteen – It’s him!

“Oh how I wish you could see for yourself!” Hannah whispered to her husband, as he was chasing a piece of the steak she had cut for him around the plate.

“I’m sorry it’s inconvenient for you my dear, but I can’t very well help that I’m blind now can I?” Harold sarcastically teased back.

“Sorry…” She gently replied, knowing with content he wouldn’t take offence. “But I’ve looked at that picture a hundred times again and again, I’m certain that girl must really be Mia Fischer, the daughter of Mila and Hershel Fischer, not that she probably knows it herself.” Hannah was watching intermittently between mouthfuls of fish and sips from her wine glass, at the Fishers, sat at their table. She’d been careful not to make it as obvious as she had at breakfast, she was almost certain Emilia had caught her staring.

“But say she is, and say that man with her really is Hershel Fischer, I wouldn’t know how on earth to go about doing anything.” Harold continued.

“You are the one who did the research on him Harold, you spent years chasing his trail, if anyone can do something surely it’s you?” She urged him again.

“My dear, first off, as much as I trust you, I can’t see the man or his daughter for myself. And without any further proof, if we got this wrong, and tried to have him arrested, it could destroy my reputation and all my credibility, not to mention the humiliation we’d rain down on an innocent family.”

“Harold, we are talking about a Nazi, a mass murderer! How can you be so blazé about this?” Hannah emphasised, reaching across the help guide his fork under some petit pois.

Harold sighed, and collected his thoughts whilst finishing a mouthful. “I’m sorry my dear, I am. Perhaps being blind has cost me some of my guts… but without seeing things for myself anymore, I can’t help but second guess everything.”

Hannah suddenly felt rather guilty for pressurising Harold quite so much, and brushed his hand. “I am sorry my dear, I must sound so insensitive. It’s just – it’s him! I know it.”

“Well then, how about this. Take my book, the one with the picture, and express your concerns to the Hotel Manager or some other senior officer, whoever you think may be more discrete. Then all we can do is leave it in their hands.”

“I suppose…” Hannah gave in, knowing her husband to often be the more rational out of the two of them. “You’re right.” Her eyes drifted back across the room, at how normal the girl looked, and even how normal her father looked. He sat enjoying a meal with his daughter, and laughed and smiled as she spoke. Could someone as normal-looking and charming as that, also be responsible for torturing and murdering thousands?

“I’ll tell you what Hannah, I’m starting to wish I’d written about gardening.” Harold laughed.

Across the dining room, Reuben Altman had once again achieved a place at the Rosen’s table. He’d enthusiastically steered the conversation onto their onward journey to Israel, and their shared Jewish heritage. He and Manny had gone at the subject like two old dears at a coffee morning, but Belle had been noticeably quiet and thoughtful.

“Penny for them, Mrs Rosen?” Rueben joked suddenly, after shovelling in a forkful of ratatouille.

“Sorry, what was that Mrs Altman?” She broke free from her daze and with a flutter of her eyes and a smile tried to catch up with the conversation.

“Your thoughts, Mrs Rosen, penny for your thoughts! You looked a thousand miles away!” Rueben joked with her.

“Oh dear, yes I suppose I was!” She giggled, but didn’t reply.

“It was that fella’ up in the cocktail lounge, he got to you, didn’t he mamma?” Manny Rosen asked, concerned. “I don’t see why?”

“No, you wouldn’t have done dear.” She smiled sweetly at her husband, “It’s a woman’s intuition, that’s all. It would go straight over your head!”

As the Rosens playfully bickered, Reuben took some time to survey the dining room, so colourfully decorated now ready for the New Year’s festivities. They’d chosen to keep the Christmas Tree up, but had now added gold banners around the room, and a large ‘Happy New Year’ sign over the musicians stage.

His wandering eyes quickly fell upon Hannah Meredith, who was busy ordering dessert for both her and her husband from the menu. Recalling the concerning conversation he’d had with her earlier that day, he hoped she had put her meddling to bed, but the moment the waiter had finished taking her order, Rueben watched as her eyes drifted straight back to Emilia’s table across the room.

He wondered why she of all people would be so obsessed with what amounted to no more than Déjà vu, and he wondered why God would have placed this meddling woman into the picture now – after more than twenty years, why now did someone have to happen upon the trail. Credit to Mrs Meredith, she may have picked up on something that had eluded the Mossad for decades – if that was indeed the reason for her interest in the couple. Rueben humoured himself into thinking, hoping, it could be something as simple as Emilia Fisher resembling a girl Mrs Meredith knew from church.

“Yeah, some chance.” He chuckled to himself, before returning to his dinner plate. As he finished what was left, and casually dabbed either side of his mouth with his napkin, Reuben had already, with a mind full of regret, begun to choose the method with which he would silence Harold and Hannah Meredith.


	14. Chapter 14 – The Morning before Disaster

Sheridan was drenched. He stood out on the aft deck, without shelter from the pelting rain or the spray that kept rising up over the side of the ship as she pitched up and down over the waves. The wind drove the water through his hair and the clothes he still wore from the night before. He’d spent the evening before drinking, in the same bar Harry had stormed out of and left him a rejected man. When the stewards had been pressed to eject him from the lounge, he’d wandered aimlessly, spending a few hours in the nearby library, and a few more in the larger lounge amidships up on the promenade deck, where a few pound notes had persuaded a less scrupulous steward to serve him a few more drinks. It was safe to say he was thoroughly intoxicated, drunk as a skunk, and yet as he clung freezing to the railings, watching the ferocious waves before him, he felt as clear headed as perhaps he ever had done. The enormity and terrifying intimidation of the massive swells surrounding the _‘Poseidon’_ had done something that very few people had ever done – made him feel small and powerless. Spending time in the company of such an overpowering presence against which, on his own, he would be entirely outmatched, had given Sheridan a glimpse at the truth of mortality. He had seen clearly how, in the grand scheme, the power that his wealth had always afforded him was entirely superficial, he was in truth, as small and helpless as anyone else against the great tide of life.

The first conclusion Sheridan had reached, in his pickled state of mind, had been that his life was entirely worthless, and for an hour he had been convinced that before morning broke, he would throw himself over the rails, and willingly offer himself over to a greater power on his own terms. But with further thought, it dawned on him that if he was, deep in his soul, so willing to throw his kingdom and life away so frivolously, then why was he so incapable of merely risking it, in the pursuit of something that could, in all honesty, make him a better person, a happier person?

He’s wrestled with his clouded, erratic mind over the conundrum that had been haphazardly put together by his drunkenness, before he had settled on a question he had never asked before – what should he do, that would be best for _Harry_? He had spent the week so wrapped up in what _he_ should do, how _he_ would feel if he never saw Harry again or didn’t make an effort to make up for the pain he had caused, that he realised, perhaps the whole issue was that he had never really considered putting Harry’s feelings before his own.

A massive wave came crashing down right over the railings this time, swamping him, tearing him from the railings and washing him clear across the deck until he struck a raised air vent that prevented him from being swept straight across to the railings on the other side of the ship. His velvet evening jacket hung from his shoulders like a mill-stone, and he spat out the mouthful of salty sea-water he’d taken in. Defeated, deflated, he didn’t even try to get up. He simply lay where he had been swept, and rolled onto his back so he could look up at the grey sky, as the dawn was fast approaching.

The _‘Poseidon’_ rolled again, and he too rolled with her, back again towards the railings. He struck them with some force, hard enough that the strike of his head against the metal bars almost knocked him out entirely. He hung like a discarded blanket, draped between the railings, one arm and one leg suspended out over the sea. As he finally passed out from the shock and the cold, he only caught a glimpse of the crewmen racing towards him.

Barbara Pearce had been awake at that early hour too. Her sister Marion had entertained herself slightly too well after dinner and was still sleeping off the hangover. Barbara was ashamed, deeply ashamed, to be in the company of a senior lady that behaved like a lush.

Wide awake and tired of Marion’s loud snoring in the bed beside her, Barbara had taken herself off for a walk along the enclosed promenade. Although a placid, relatively sheltered lady, Barbara was still one to be fascinated by something as wild as the stormy ocean beyond the windows, and walked the promenade in awe of the seething, swelling spectacle. Had Barbara ever been a mother, she knew she would have been the first to be reprimanding her children for being outside, trying to walk down a wide open space whilst the ship was moving about so freely, but after a lifetime of confined married life, and a further decade parenting a wayward sister, Barbara was inclined to allow herself a little danger, a little adventure – as the autumn years had set in, she realised every opportunity could end up being her last.

Barbara did often think about her late husband, and whilst she felt her married life had been confining and perhaps kept her from experiencing as much as she would have liked out of life, she would never say that she resented him for it, for that would not be becoming of a respectable lady, and be a betrayal and lapse in the loyalty Barbara felt a woman should offer her husband. It was fast becoming an outdated way of thinking, she knew, but Barbara had always been proud of her marriage, and for standing beside her husband – Adam, despite his flaws and many mistakes. He had been strict with her in the home, expecting the household run to a high standard, and to a regular routine, and she had been more than happy to oblige, but perhaps much of that loyalty had come from the promise of children eventually – children that never did come.

Barbara snapped that trail of thought from her mind – it would lead to an indulgent episode of self-pitying, something she detested, and I any case, Marion presented as many challenges as a child these days, what with her loose, flamboyant ways, and the creeping reality that dementia was setting in. That was in part the reason for their taking this lavish cruise – knowing it may well be Marion’s last chance at enjoying something she could coherently appreciate.

She reached the far end of the enclosed promenade, and through the doors that led out onto the open deck, she could see the horizon behind the ship rising up and down, the vast, turbulent ocean filling the view one moment, and then vanishing beneath the stern the next.

Suddenly, the two doors were thrust open by two crewmen, the rain and sea spray still pouring from their hats and shoulders, they were dragging a third man into the promenade by his arms. He was moving, just, but was even more sodden than the crewman – still dressed in what looked to be his eveningwear from the night before.

“Heavens!” She called over; “Did he go overboard?” She innocently asked. The seamen both had to catch their breath before one could reply, abruptly; “No ma’am, but it was a near thing. Thank god he didn’t – no soul would survive in these seas, or stand any chance of being found, the sea would swallow them whole in a heartbeat!” He growled, clearly not impressed at the mans situation. “And it’s not like the _Poseidon_ can just throw her brakes on and turn on a sixpence, we’d be miles away by the time we were done, not that the Captain would even try turning the old girl in a storm like this!”

Barbara couldn’t think what to say after the torrent of information the crewman hurled her way, so she simply smiled and pretended to return to the view through the window. Out of the corner of her eye though, Barbara still watched the poor man led on the floor. He looked dreadful, probably drunk, and his eyes were red and barely open. He was an appalling sight to behold, quite shameful for a gentleman, and yet she couldn’t help but feel for him. As when her Adam had passed, and she had found herself feeling entirely alone and useless in the world, she had ended up in a very similar state one evening – but only the once.


	15. Chapter 15 – The Calm Before

The Captain was wearing the first smile he’d cracked in days, as he stood out on the _‘Poseidon’_ s starboard bridge wing and looked out over an ocean that had finally settled to a calm, slight swell that even in her wounded condition, could comfortably travel through with as little rolling a ship as old as she could manage. It would still be some time before the majority of his human cargo would recover entirely from their prolonged bouts of sea sickness, but it would hopefully still be in time for them to get back to spending in the ships many amenities before they were half way across the Atlantic. Secondly, he had been able to return the ships engines to ‘Full Ahead’, and they were already making back up some of the lost time the storm had stolen. Overhead, the winds had completely lapsed, and a glorious blue sky indicated the weather should last. The Captain wondered if his luck would hold for the next crossing, out of Lisbon.

Reuben Altman was stewing, uncomfortable and wracked with regret as he sat in his cabin, fondling the pistol in his hands. He’d brought it aboard with absolutely no intention to use it – preferably, not even on his target, Hershel Fischer, whom his orders dictated was to be tailed, protected and delivered into waiting Israeli hands at the port in Lisbon. The evil old codger had no idea what was waiting for him – yet to Reuben, it still seemed too peaceful and diplomatic, for a man that had played a crucial role in Hitler’s ‘final solution’.

The problem of the moment, nevertheless, was that of Hannah Meredith, and necessarily her husband Harold, whom despite his inability to recognise the Fischer’s, had undoubtedly been filled in by his doting wife. Despite how irritating and stressful Hannah Meredith’s meddling was, by anyone’s reckoning a death sentence for simply stumbling across some information sounded incredibly cruel, even evil in itself. From the beginning, the plan had been that nobody even got hurt. He’d asked himself a thousand times through the night whether he was overreacting, whether he was justified – but he weighed up the deaths of the Merediths, against the justice and closure to millions that Fischer’s trial and execution would bring. He knew what his commanding officer would say, yet that hadn’t been sufficient to stifle his conscience. He finished his cigarette, and then rose to his feet, slipping the small, discrete firearm into his jacket pocket. He’d observed the Merediths returning to their lower deck cabin, and would try his luck that they were still there.

As he casually meandered down the slightly swaying corridors, and descended the art-deco style staircases, Reuben found himself dwelling not on the horrific act he was about to commit, but rather what Emilia Fisher would say, how she would react and behave when the planned dockside snatch happened. How would an innocent girl such as she react, when being told the loving father she’d known all her life was a Nazi? A mass-murdering SS Colonel infamous for his profound cruelty. How would she look upon him – the man that had lied to her and facilitated her father’s capture? And he wondered about himself – he’d spent two years on tracing Fischer, confirming his identity and then waiting for the opportunity to snatch him out from under the Argentinians. How would he return to ‘normal’ work, what would he aspire to now that the ultimate goal he’d planned for was within reach? He worried he’d have far too much time on his hands to contemplate that charming, innocent couple he’d murdered in cold blood whilst they’d been on holiday.

He finally arrived, and clutched the pistol in his jacket pocket as he stared at the brass lettering on their door – D35. They were still in there, he could hear Harold’s voice, muffled though so he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He raised a hand to knock on the door, and checked that the corridor was still empty, looking quickly to his right, and then to his left.

It was when Reuben looked to his left, that the dark, motionless figure appeared, blocking the walkway, staring straight at him. “I may be old now, Mr Altman, but I am no fool.” The voice was familiar, it was Fischer – his German accent more pronounced now, he wasn’t trying to suppress it as much. There was fierce pride in his voice, accompanied by hatred. Before Reuben could even comprehend what Fischer was doing, the old man raised a pistol of his own, and fired.

Hannah Meredith had been listening to her husband’s account of what was believed to have become of Herschel Fischer after the war, when he’d presumably fled Germany with his wife. Despite the serious, frightening conversation they were having, she had at the same time been admiring her husband, as she frequently would. She didn’t even need to hide the fact she was doing it, Hannah could sit and marvel at Harold openly. Certainly he was aging now, and after the car accident had taken his sight from him he hid his blinded eyes with glasses so large and dark that his once handsome face was normally obscured by them. But he could still speak with such eloquence, class and intellect. Just listening to his mind work was soothing and exhilarating at once – it had been listening to him talk, that had first made Hannah realise that she loved that man.

His flow of anecdotes was suddenly interrupted, by a sudden, loud bang. It was so loud that Hannah was sure at first that it had occurred within the cabin, and after jumping a foot in the air, had quickly begun searching for a blown bulb or electrical socket. Poor Harold, her Harold, had jumped even more than she, and unable to confirm his safety for himself, had begun repeating over and over “What was it Hannah? What was it, should I move? Was it something close to me?” He began to stand and feel around with his hands. But moments after the bang, there was a thud against their cabin door, and Hannah quickly figured out the commotion was from the corridor.

“No, my dear, it’s coming from outside. I’ll check, stay where you are, it’s fine.” She fought to keep her voice calm whilst fighting for breath – her heart was racing from the shock. As she slowly opened the door, at first looking out she found the corridor empty. But the motion by her feet quickly drew her gaze down, upon the squirming man on the floor. Reuben was sweating and cringing, as he clasped at a bloody wound in his stomach that was oozing blood.

“Shit…” He rasped through clenched teeth. “I’m so sorry…” He cried as he looked up at her. Hannah just stared back, dumbfounded, as Reuben pulled the gun from his jacket pocket and held it up at her face. Wincing at the pain from his own wound, Rueben had closed his eyes when he pulled the trigger, and not seen Hannah quickly throwing herself backwards from the doorway. The shot missed her, and she had sufficient time to slam the cabin door behind her.

“Shit!” Rueben croaked again, fighting to roll onto his side so that he could struggle back up to his feet. There had been too much noise, he could already hear people working the keys on their cabin doors – flustered and without a plan, he quickly fled.

Inside D-35, Hannah clung, terrified to Harold. They were pushed as far into the corner of the bedroom as they could manage from the door, and waited in suspense. She was certain Rueben was at moment going to force his way in and shoot again. Harold had begged to be told what was happening, but she’d quickly and sharply told him not to speak a word, and to do as she say at once. He didn’t try to ask again, but she could feel his heart pounding in his chest as she nestled her face against it, securing the most comforting place she could find in which to meet her end.

But the door didn’t break open, and they weren’t gunned down in their final embrace. The terrifying, uncertain silence beyond the door was quickly filling with the comforting sound of other passengers rushing to the scene.


	16. Chapter 16 – Crescendo

Sheridan awoke with a horrendous headache, and a throbbing back. All he could think of at first was his discomfort, and the absence of any memory of what had just occurred. Being so out of control scared him, and he began to toss and turn in his bed as he grew infuriated with himself for not knowing where he had been. Forcing his tired eyes to open, he looked about, discovering the four walls of his suite. In one way that was comforting, it was vaguely familiar, and it was somewhere safe and private, he felt immediately relaxed knowing he could lapse into self-pity over his headache without worry that he was under the public eye. As he reclined back into his bed, vague, unfamiliar memories began to surface, flashes of time he had spent out on deck – he’d been out in a storm…

A gentle hand suddenly came to rest on his, and he leapt upright with a start, turning to face a middle-aged, blonde-haired woman in a white nurse’s uniform. She was sat quietly in an armchair beside his bed with a book in her lap.

“Who the devil are you? What are you doing in my room?” He growled, shaken and humiliated. Instantly he could smell his own breath, the overpowering aroma of alcohol. It angered him further as the nurse recoiled slightly as his breath struck her also.

“Good afternoon, Lord Ambrose. Please don’t be alarmed, my name is Nurse Rowe – Gina if you prefer? I’ve only been popping in to check on you, to check that you were sleeping soundly and didn’t require anything.”

“Who put me to bed? Who changed my clothes – I didn’t dress myself I know that?” He grumbled, holding a hand up to cover his aching eyes, offended by the sunlight pouring through the portholes over his bed.

Nurse Gina smiled, it was a compassionate smile, despite her expression clearly letting him know that he only had himself to blame. “Two crewman brought you to your cabin, and those two men were the one to change you. Your clothes were sodden from the rain, we couldn’t have left you in them.”

“What time is it?” He snapped, suddenly remembering that before he’d turned to the drink, he’d resolved to find Harry in the morning for one last attempt at redemption.

“It’s late afternoon now sir, around four o’clock. I’m afraid you’ve slept right through breakfast and luncheon, but I can arrange for some food to be brought to your cabin if you’re hungry.” Sheridan didn’t reply, but groaned again as he swung his legs out the side of the bed.

“In a way I’d say you’re lucky, we hit another spell of bad weather through midday – the ship heeled so far over to one side during the lunch service that many of us weren’t even sure she’d right back up! But the sea’s beautifully calm again now.” She explained, as she tidied her book away into a medical satchel she had with her, and rose to her feet. “But unfortunately I still have over half the passengers bedridden with sea sickness – so by your leave, I’ll return to accompanying the doctor on his rounds. But if you need anything further, you can reach the ships hospital from any public area.” She smiled, before heading for the door. She paused once more, and turned back to look upon Sheridan, and went to add something further, but thinking better of it following his aggravated, intolerant staring, she offered instead a parting smile, before quickly leaving.

Holding his face in his hands, Sheridan began to remember the entire night, how he’d behaved, the danger he’d put himself in – and why. He began to recall his thoughts of hurling himself over the railings, all because of the pain he’d brought upon himself, and also, that he’d caused for Harry. Slamming his fists down against the mattress, he knew he had to do something. The gloves were off now, he realised now more than ever before, that he was capable of overcoming his own shortcomings, his foul attitude and temper, because none of it was worth what he now stood to lose. He would bathe, visit the ship’s barber and find some food – then he had business with the ship’s Hotel Manager. As he began to scheme, for the first time in years, he began to smile with excitement.

Emilia Fisher was in a cheerful mind, and was heading back towards her cabin after an hour of browsing the on-board shops on the promenade deck. She had purchased a pretty, delicate-looking little white blouse with buttercups embroidered in amongst a floral pattern. She was excited to show it to her father, but she was equally interested to see the reaction it may draw from Rueben Altman.

Emilia swung off the bottom step of the main staircase with one hand on the banister, and was about to jump down the next flight of stairs with a skip in her step, when her way was blocked by two large crewman in dark navy uniforms, one carrying a truncheon, the other a set of handcuffs. They did their best to avoid colliding with her, but their sheer size and the speed that they were moving at made a minor brushing inevitable. One dismissively apologized, before instructing the other to follow him down each corridor. The concentration and urgency on their faces had started Emilia from her innocent euphoria, and for a second her curiosity dwelled on what may have the crew in such a hurry, before she quickly lost interest in favour of pulling her new blouse from its bag and looking it over again with pride as she reached the corridor leading down to her suite.

“Psst…. Hey!” A whispered voice called out to her from behind. Turning, Emilia found Rueben peering out from a cupboard door across the A deck lobby. He looked very unwell, white and sweating, with dark shadows around his eyes.

“Reuben! Are you ok?” She cheered out loud, to Reuben’s horror.

“Shh! Quietly – I need your help.” Unperturbed by his apparent need for stealth, she cheerfully walked over to him, ready with an outstretched arm to show off her new blouse. Without even appearing to notice it, Reuben snatched out an arm and clasped her hand with his own – it was extremely cold, yet she noticed immediately that it was slippery. Looking down, she recoiled in shock at the sight of blood, his entire hand and wrist was drenched in blood.

“You’re hurt! What’s happened? Oh my god!” She cried out.

“Quiet! Please! Nobody must know where I am. I’m being hunted!” He whispered sincerely, his desperate eyes breaking from hers only to scan for anyone approaching.

__“You need a doctor, quickly! I’ll find someone stay here!” She tried to pull away, but his grip on her wrist was tight.

“You can’t tell anyone where I am. I need you to find me a needle and thread, some alcohol, and anything in the way of bandages…” He heaved, clearly panicked. “I’ve tried to find them myself, but there are people everywhere! I tried to move along the promenade but the Rosen’s were out there, and that damn fool running like a simpleton… I had to hide down here!” He rambled.

Emilia was shaking, terrified at the sight of the blood. She wanted to help, but her fear was making it difficult to comprehend what he was asking, all she could think about was finding someone, anyone that could help him, as quickly as possible. Suddenly, as she thought about going after the two crewmen that she’d seen to ask for help, Emilia was struck by a supposition. Those crewmen had been looking for something…someone? They were clearly prepared for resistance. And now, she had discovered a man in hiding, that he evidently been entangled in some form of violence. It had to be him they were searching for!

She suddenly tried to pull away, the fear taking hold of her, and in a panic she screamed.

“Quiet! Please be quiet! I need your help or I’ll die!” He broke his whisper, and boomed at her with an uncharacteristic growl out of despair. “It’s not what you think! It’s not what you think! I was attacked… I’m in danger!” He cried, over and over, pulling sharply on her arm. But the blood compromised his grip, and with a final, wild tug Emilia broke free from his grip.

“He’s here!” She didn’t know why she screamed the words, why she instinctively screamed her betrayal of her friend with such force, but she did it again with equal resolve; “The man is here!”

Reuben stared in disbelief and terror, his wide, terrified eyes darting from door to door, up and down the two staircases. “I needed your help!” He shrieked, before slamming the cupboard door shut.

Emilia began to cry, holding out the blood-drenched blouse still in the hand she’d proffered to Rueben moments before. A handful of alerted passengers were quick to descend upon the lobby, and within the next few moments the two crewmen from the deck above had come running to her side.

Both relieved, and mortified with her own betrayal of her friend in need, Emilie struggled to explain the scene through the tears. “I’m sorry…” She began to cry towards the closed cupboard door. “What have I done? What have I done?” she began to murmur over and over to herself in disbelief, “Oh my god, what have I done?”

“Where is he?” The same crewman she’d run into asked. She pointed to the cupboard door, “He needs help, he’s been attacked! Its not his fault! He needs help!”

The two men forced open the cupboard door and pounced, crashing down onto Rueben’s vulnerable frame sprawled across the floor. He cried out and tried to resist, but against the two giant men he was helpless.

The guilt came quickly to Emilia, she held her bloody hands to her face as she bawled. “He needs help… I only wanted you to help him!” 


	17. Chapter 17 – Something deep

By early evening, the _‘Poseidon’_ was steaming within a couple of hundred miles south west of the Azores. With a fantastically placid ocean, the old ocean liner was making excellent speed, whilst the crew was focused on delivering a smooth dinner service to the passengers now well enough to emerge from their cabins.

Harry Perkins was in his bunk, confined to the stewards quarters in the stern. Since his heated exchange with Sheridan the night before, he had spent the day drowning in regret. His anger and resentment had taken control, and blinded him to what had admittedly been the most sincere attempt at reconciliation on Sheridan’s part to date. If he had only listened, how could things have turned out? Could things have been fixed between them? Would Sheridan really have changed for him…? He could wonder all he wanted, for he had blown it now either way. Anything now, would be mere speculation.

Sheridan Ambrose had eaten earlier in his suite, and then visited the barber at around six o’clock, once his head had cleared. He was now on his way through the great ship, deeper and deeper towards the bow crew areas, clutching the pardon that he had negotiated with the Hotel Manager and insisted the cruise line offer Harry Perkins, in exchange for the anticipated bribe of course. Gleaming, he would offer Harry the reinstatement of his position onboard the ‘ _Poseidon’_ , the very least he could do to make up for his own disgraceful behaviour, but he would follow it up with a second, far more ambitious option. It was time to start again, for him, for them both. He anticipated rejection to the latter, in fact he dreaded what he considered to be almost a certainty that Harry would demand that he turn around and leave, but still he smiled with a new found realisation that he could perhaps change, he could be a better person, and as unlikely as redemption was to be forthcoming in Harry’s eyes, Sheridan couldn’t help but imagine – what if it did? What if Harry could still forgive him, and go back with him to Ambrose Hall?

Reuben Altman lay motionless, exhausted, restrained by his wrists and ankles to the operating table in the ship’s hospital. The doctor had fished the bullet out, declaring time after time how lucky he was that it had missed any vital organs as he had stitched the wound closed. He was a broken man, without a plan. He would still endeavour to create a false identity, a false reason for his being on the Poseidon, but with the Meredith’s knowing he had tried to kill them, hours after Hannah had enquired about the Fisher’s, his cover was all but blown. If Herschel Fischer didn’t already know by now that it was larger than just Rueben, that it had been a Mossad operation concerning him onboard, he would find out soon, and the dockside snatch in Lisbon would be foiled. Fischer would vanish again, and never be brought to justice. He lay staring at the light on the ceiling, trying to will himself into blaming it all on the meddling Hannah Meredith, but he couldn’t. This was his catastrophe, from which there could be no return.

Hannah and Harold Meredith had taken some comfort in the news that Mr Altman had been apprehended and confined, but the shock to them both had left Hannah nervous about leaving their cabin. Exhausted from the experience, and with the lunch time sea swells making the rocking ocean liner too hazardous for Harold to venture about, the couple had elected to spend the rest of the day together, alone in their cabin. They’d relaxed and slept side by side, and eaten together whilst listening to music and reading – Hannah the final draft of her latest novel, Harold a braille translation of a historic account of the British-Zulu war. They had been notified that further questioning would take place, with their consent, at eight o’clock, and were now waiting to divulge their experiences with Altman to the master-at-arms.

Barbara and Marion Pearce had chosen to only eat a starter that evening, and only just left the dining room. Marion had a date set with a lone gentleman traveller that evening in the drawing room on the Sun Deck, and was eager to acquire a new perfume from the shops.

Ricardo Fisher was sat in silence on the end of his bed, one arm held tightly around the shoulders of his sobbing daughter. She had settled somewhat from her earlier hysterics, but after some babbling talk of guilt and ‘giving him away’ she’d returned to her crying. Ricardo had always made time for his daughter, and afforded her every ounce of patience and compassion that he possessed – Emilia was after all his most precious possession, his greatest achievement. However, there was still a soldier within him, from a distant time, that couldn’t abide such grotesque displays of vulnerability. Inside, his daughters’ relentless emotional display disgusted and appalled him, to the extreme that he wanted to slap her across the face and demand that she stop. But he could no longer be that man, he had to be better, and so he chose silence. But beneath the silence, he would still rage about how close this experience had been – far too close. Had the decades since his escape from Germany left him so complacent in his new existence that he’d made it so easy for himself to be discovered? He had moved the family home and burnt many old memento’s from his past life when he’d heard the news about Eichmann’s capture nine years ago, but since then he’d admittedly given his own capture very little thought. That was until his necessary journey on the ‘ _Poseidon’_. ‘Business’ had been the reason he’d given Emilia, but the final remnants of his inherited family estate had been the true purpose – to the value of millions. As he stared at the bloody blouse his daughter had thrown onto the sofa, his anger continued to surge – at the Mossad, the Jews, but perhaps most painfully, at his own shattered sense of invincibility. The fortune that awaited him in Europe, was not worth this. He would now remain onboard the ship, and travel directly back with her to South America.

The Captain stood at the windows of the wheelhouse, watching the _‘Poseidon_ ’s nose gently dip and rise through the gentle ocean before it. With a timely arrival after her first cruise under his command now back on the cards, he began to wonder how long he and the great vessel would be together. When she had been the _‘Atlantis’_ she’d seen over twenty different masters, and as he bonded now with the re-christened ‘ _Poseidon’_ he found he held a certain level of jealousy, that she had been with so many others before him. Equally, he was embarrassed that he had so quickly damaged her stabilizers, mishandling her due to his own inexperience with such a massive ship. But he held the wooden rail firmly in his hand, as he silently made the ship a promise that he’d learn, he’d work to understand her quirks, her personality, that he would allow for her age and handle her with care. They’d started out shakey, but he vowed that together, he and the _‘Poseidon’_ would be a partnership to be remembered. Together they’d see that she upheld the standards she was remembered throughout the world for. The ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ would make headlines again, he could feel it.

As he felt his back stiffen with a new found pride in his command, he noticed a very slight shudder in his feet. At first thought, he sighed, ready to ask ‘what’s wrong with her now?’, expecting to find there was a problem with a propeller shaft collar, or that she’d thrown a propeller blade. But his semi-sarcastic expression met with his first officer before he could speak, who appeared far more concerned. “Sir… did you feel that?”

Sensing his jovial quip about what had broken this time would not be well received, he swallowed it and made his way across closer to his fellow officer. “I did, but I’m not certain what it was… to feel it all the way up here it had to be something substantial. Thrust block you think?” The officer, who had made no secret out of the fact he had served on the ship longer than her new master, swung his head in instant disagreement. “No sir, that wasn’t something onboard. That was something deep, far beneath us.”

The Captain looked back out to sea. “But it’s so peaceful, there’s barely a ripple on the surface.” He reached for his binoculars, and headed out to the port bridge wing.


	18. Chapter 18 - Disaster

The inaugural voyage of the re-born ‘ _Poseidon’_ , had been troublesome. Both her skipper and her owners had struggled, sworn and bled to bring it to fruition and see it through. Almost every obstacle the ageing ocean liner could have thrown at them in their own regard, she had done. On that final night, mid-Atlantic, her Captain and conglomerate of corporate owners had breathed the first sigh of relief since they’d purchased her, as she finally made up a lot of time on a calm sea.

None could have foreseen, that at ten minutes past nine that evening, a major cataclysm would occur, and spell disaster for the mammoth vessel and her twenty-two hundred passengers and crew. The vibration that the Captain, his officers and many of the ships crew had felt, had been the initial, partial slip of a seabed ridge, thousands of feet beneath the hull. That ridge, part of an already unstable fault, finally collapsed moment later, creating a giant sub-sea earthquake at ten minutes past nine. One of the very few to witness the event first hand, was the Captain himself, still poised out on the port side bridge wing. The scene that suddenly erupted before him was something biblical in scale. The ocean ahead on the ‘ _Poseidon’_ s port side appeared to fall away, collapse inwards upon itself. As the subsidence tore across the surface of the Atlantic towards the ship, he could only stare in disbelief, paralyzed by the cataclysmic displacement. The Captain threw himself back towards the wheelhouse, screaming for the crewman to perform a sharp port turn. It was too little, too late.

The liner was dragged nose first down into the trough with such speed and violence that all souls aboard were at once thrown forward towards the bow, many feeling as though they were lifted entirely from the deck as the ship dropped away beneath their feet. The casual bustle of chatter and every day activity was immediately replaced with a chorus of screams. The ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ herself groaned and creaked as her nose dug deep into the depths of the maelstrom, her foredeck buried entirely beneath the sea for a moment, before she struggled to level out.

It was then, that the resulting tsunami created by the ocean displacement, rose up above the drowning ship. Those that had been out on deck, thrown to their hands and knees, had but a fleeting chance to gaze upon the wall of water hanging above them, before the crest came crashing down upon them, striking the port side of the _‘Poseidon’_ with incredible force. The crest broke up and over the side of the hull, washing across her sun deck, tearing away lifeboats, vents and passengers. Swamped and already severely unstable, the ship was rolled sharply over by the wave, down onto her starboard side.

Water tore through every opening in the superstructure, ripping doors from their hinges, smashing through windows and pouring into the ships three giant smoke stacks.

Everyone, everywhere, was helpless, effortlessly thrown from wherever they stood or sat, against the floor or the starboard side walls that were quickly becoming the floor. Without warning, few had time to brace or find something fixed to hold on to, but were instead thrown into a turmoil of shattering furniture, splintering wood and broken glass. The dining room, being one of the largest chasms onboard, became an abyss into which its occupants were catapulted, falling the entire width of the ship, killing hundreds almost instantly as they rolled through tables, chairs, crockery, cutlery and a gathering avalanche of flailing bodies.

The lights immediately began to flicker and fail throughout the ship, making the experience of being flipped over and over in whichever room or corridor people found themselves all the more terrifying. As the ocean began to race into the ships upper decks, the last of the wave passing over her hull was able to push the ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ into a deeper roll, burying her superstructure deeper beneath the surface, until in an agonizing scream and groan, she capsized entirely, settling upside down.

Ricardo and Emilia Fisher had rolled amongst the debris of their suite across the floor, then a wall, and come to rest entwined on the ceiling. Emilia at first did not move, her face pressed against the ceiling light, her eyes startled by the shine of the bulb directly into them. Immediately she began to scream, but her father was struggling to his feet before the ship had even completed her roll, and was fighting to drag her out of the wreckage by her shoulders. He shook her violently and screamed in her face to stop her screaming, and pushed her towards the door, now slightly above them. He had to jump to push the handle upwards instead of pulling it down, instantly opening their cabin to a torrent of sea water that was tearing down the corridor, rising fast.

As the ship hung, inverted, her massive engine room machinery began to tear itself apart under its own, suspended weight. Almost immediately, those still alive were witness to petrifying, deafening explosions above their heads, as boilers exploded and machinery tore away from the decks and plummeted down through the upper decks, now below.

The highest decks were entirely flooded in seconds, those in the library, drawing room, aft lounges or ballroom were drowned before they even knew what had happened. The Captain and officers had been buried by the wave instantly, crushed under its weight and then ripped without mercy through the wheelhouse upon the wave crest, killed instantly.

Barbara and Marion Pearce had been half-way up the main staircase when the ship had rolled over, and been pressed against a wall mercifully clear of any furniture. They had harmlessly slipped across each surface that they met with next until they’d collapsed onto the ceiling in a breathless heap. Both hadn’t moved, but stared across at each other in disbelief, in terror, until Marion had simply said “Babs… the carpet is on the ceiling! How is it on the ceiling?” As Barbara looked up to where her sister was pointing, seawater began to swell up over the reversed landing, and pool around her head, soaking her hair with a layer of oil.

Harry Perkins had been thrown straight out the door to his quarters, having landed upon it with such force it had broken open and spilled him out into the corridor, twisted in a cushion of mangled bed sheets and pillows. “Christ! Jesus!” He’s screamed as he fell, holding his hands over his face as cups, forks, books, anything not fixed down was hurled towards him from every angle. He could call out only one name as he struck the ceiling, without rationalisation or any understating over how he was apparently meeting his end – “Mum! Help me!” Laying among other scrambling crewmen, watching the lights in the floor flicker and threaten to fail entirely, Harry lifted his head as far as he could, waiting for the sea to pour in and kill them. He thought about praying, he thought about crying, but he was frozen, emotionless, stunned.

Sheridan had been alone when disaster struck – and rolled through an open door into the liners cabin-class cinema. He’d bounced across row after row of seats until he’d fallen the rest of the way and torn through the screen itself, landing on a large set of speakers. He felt his left arm crack beneath his own weight, his cry of agony was drowned out by the massive explosions overhead, and the horrific pounding and crashing of engine room parts smashing down through the ventilation shafts and smoke stacks.

As the engine rooms and power plants broke apart, the lights suddenly went out, plunging the ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ into total darkness at last. As those not already drowned, crushed or burnt lay waiting for the great ship to go down, her old, strained hull continued to shift, groan and implode. And then as quickly as the cataclysm itself, the crippled vessel fell silent.


	19. Chapter 19 – “I’m above you!”

The evening had grown darker still, almost entirely pitch black now. A cloud-less sky allowed the moon and stars to cast a chilled, bright glow down upon the ocean that was now beginning to settle and recover from the tsunami. The roar of the sea had been subdued to a gentle chopping, and all that would now tell of the disaster that had just occurred, was the large, dark body that lay awkwardly like a dying whale on the surface. It’s immense size meant that it didn’t continue to move for very long, despite the residual churning of the water in which it was suspended. Four large appendages rose up from the highest peak of the dying beast – it’s four enormous propeller’s, which continued to turn for a while, two slightly longer than the others, spinning idly on their own momentum, no longer attached to the mechanisms and powerful engines that had once driven them from deep inside the ship’s body. Beneath the propellers, the giant rudder weighing 150 tons, remained at a sharp port-side angle. The silence was eerily beautiful, and would give no suggestion of the violence, suffering and death visited upon the thousands of people trapped within that unassuming, featureless hull that now entombed them all.

Barbara had still been staring in astonishment up at the carpet above her when the lights had gone out. When the rising water had threatened to rise up to her face she had snapped back to attention and hauled her hurting body up to her feet. She had heard Marion splashing around somewhere close, but her class went unanswered. To her relief, the lights seemed to be gradually coming back on – she could see a faint glow, and any light was better than none, immediately offering her some small comfort. As she could begin to comprehend up from down and left from right, she began to throw her arms in every direction, her hands coming down in great splashes, as she searched frantically for her sister Marion.

“Marion? Answer me! Where are you? Are you alright?” The shouting strained her throat, a deeply conservative and subtle woman, Barbara couldn’t quite recall the last time she had ever felt compelled to raise her voice. But as she looked around, seeing at first only her own reflection in the water that was rushing down the inverted staircase, she could hear more people about her, one by one more men and women began to cry out, to scream. The low light allowed her to look out over the lobby from her perch on the landing, and she could see across to the cabin corridors. Walls of water were racing down both, creating a howling wind that began to ruffle her hair. People struggling to escape their cabins found the doors suddenly slammed in their faces or ripped away before they eyes by the water, before it thrust them back deep into their rooms where it pinned them down until they would eventually drown. Seeing that the approaching ocean would soon reach her, Barbara’s cries for Marion became even more desperate; “For heaven’s sake, where are you? Marion?”

“I’m up here you fool! I’m above you!” Her sister’s voice suddenly answered, hoarse and shaken, but instantly recognisable. Barbara heaved herself up to stand, and peered up through the open space created by the inclining staircase. Marion’s face was bloody and her hair a mess, but Barbara sighed in relief that her sister was in one piece.

“The water’s coming in fast! I need to get up to you!” The incline that had been the smooth underside of the stairs looked relatively unassuming, but as Barbara took a run up to it and tried to hurl herself up it on her hands and knee’s, her sodden and oily figure began to slip and slide, until her arms gave out beneath her, and she slid clumsily back into the pooling water that was growing deeper as the torrents that poured down the corridors began to swamp the deck entirely.

“Damn it! No!” She had felt a curse word swelling within her throat, but years of practise stifled it automatically.

“Need a hand?” Barbara span around at the stressed, terrified, but ultimately heavenly sound of someone else behind her. It had sounded German, but the man had spoken in eloquent English. From the dark, churning abyss she found not just a man but a young woman with him, both appearing from a nearby corridor, soaked from head to toe, fighting the strong currents to reach the staircase. She threw out an arm, which the old man insisted the young woman take first. Together, the women then helped him up onto the landing. He didn’t even pause for breath, but pointed up to the next level of the staircase where Marion stood waiting. “Up there, now! She’s sinking fast!”

Unlike everyone else that had been thrown around with the debris, Rueben Fisher has remained strapped to the hospital tables throughout the entire ordeal, and now hung by his wrists and ankles from the leather straps that had bound him. The strain of him hanging, twisting and turning in attempts to free himself pulled at his fresh wound and he could feel the stitches pulled taught. Two emergency lights had now gradually begun to glow from the corners of the room, now casting their light up from beneath him through the tangled medical stations. The inversion of the room around him whilst he had been trapped on the table had been more than disorientating, and during his blind panic and attempts to free himself, Reuben had given little thought or attention to the fact the room around him was upside down, his only focus had been that something enormous had happened, and in his confined state he was powerless to defend himself from whatever fate had chosen to throw at him next.

Through the open doorway, and beyond the walls that surrounded him, he could hear hundreds of people screaming, shouting, and it was only getting louder as they recovered from their stunned silence. The loudest voice of all was that of the ‘ _Poseidon_ ’ herself, still groaning and creaking as she tore herself apart.

In the small warren of offices and medical store cupboards just outside he could hear people beginning to stir – at least one had made a real debacle out of trying to find her way out of the hospital, punching blindly at walls and doors until she had run screaming out into a corridor. Reuben continued to call for help, realising his efforts to will his restraints into undoing themselves were going nowhere. With an exhausted, frustrated sigh, he let himself again hang limp from his straps as if undergoing some gruesome form of crucifixion. As he swang gently, he began to comprehend more clearly that the surface beneath him had in fact been the ceiling, and that the world was upside down. His thoughts led not to what could have happened, or how it was possible for a vessel of the ‘ _Posiedon’_ s size to be flipped over so quickly, but directly to the most pressing question, the only one that could ever matter – how quickly would she sink? How long did he have left to live? Even a man with freedom to move around as he wished would be terrified beyond belief and without a clue as to what to do – so the fact he was tied up brought Reuben swiftly to the conclusion that he was quite possible the least likely soul to survive on the entire ship. Resigned to a fate that seemed all too inevitable, he closed his eyes and let his head drop.


	20. Chapter 20 - Disorientation

Harold Meredith found himself repeatedly blinking, for that fleeting moment he was expecting himself to wake up and be able to see the ceiling, and see for himself what on earth had just happened. His heart was pounding yes, but unable to see the room about him, Harold first began to assume that he had tripped and somehow fallen – it wouldn’t have been the first time since his sight had left him, and it most likely wouldn’t be the last. As he reached out for a piece of furniture to steady himself on, he found his hands came down instead on very unfamiliar objects, what felt like upturned chair legs, broken splinters of wood and bedsheets strewn all around him.

“My god, I’ve really done myself proud this time…” He stammered aloud, “What did I trip on Hannah? What have I damaged?” Whenever he’d spoken with such uncertainty before, his one constant had been the immediate comfort that came in the form of Hannah’s soothing, sympathetic voice. He knew of many other men who had lost their sight that resented abundant sympathy, but Hannah had always found a way to console him and empathize without it ever making him feel too sorry for himself. 

When she didn’t reply straight away, he assumed she was out of earshot, in the bathroom perhaps. “It really is turning into quite a day isn’t it – first we’re nearly gunned down, now I’m demolishing the cabin…” He tried a humorous remark to break the tension, Hannah had been hiding the terror the attack had filled her with for most of the evening, more from herself than Harold, who could hear it in every word she spoke. He tried again to find a table or the bed upon which he could steady himself as he got back to his feet, but still found only further carnage. When he gave up, his hand fell to the floor where he naturally expected to feel the soft carpet, but instead found the bland, cold surface upon which he was sat. “Hannah? Where am I?” He called again. The dawning realisation that he may have done something far worse than a mere trip began to send him spiralling towards a panic, especially as his calls for his wife were still going unanswered.

“Hannah my love? Please answer me? Where am I?” His steady, masculine voice began to quiver, he could hear it himself. His hands began to shake, and his scrambling attempts to feel something secure grew more rapid, more sporadic. His right hand then fell upon something far too familiar – hair, long hair. As his trembling fingers followed its trail his hand swiftly came down gently on his wife’s warm head. She was laid motionless on the cold floor beside him.

“Hannah! Hannah!” He exclaimed, crawling across to her side, pushing aside whatever broken piece of furniture was in his way. “Have I hurt you my dear? Hannah? Answer me please!” He wanted to frantically tug at her, to try and force a response, but he could not see if or how she was injured, and feared his own panic could inflict further injury. He waited, patiently until he hand identified both shoulders, and with a hand on each one, he carefully began to shake her. She moved, slightly, before starting to groan. A wave of relief immediately raced through Harolds body, making every limb, every finger tingle with sheer joy.

“Hannah? Can you hear me?” He let go as he could feel her sitting herself up at last.

“Harold? What on earth… what…” She trailed off, and fell silent again. Harold was beaming, smiling with such relief, that her sudden scream threatened to give him a heart attack, he leapt as she howled and almost fell.

“What is it? Hannah? Are you alright? Answer me!”

Hannah immediately took hold of both her husbands wrists, and held them firmly as she supported him. But she couldn’t, nor did she try, to mask her terror. “Harold… dear god!”

“What is it Hannah, what have I done? Did I fall on you? Did I hurt you?”

“You didn’t trip, it’s the cabin! I think… I think it’s upside down! Everything is broken, and the carpet… the bed, it’s all above us, hanging from the ceiling!” She tried to continue, but the scale of the sight was too much to try and explain in simple terms.

“I think, the ship has overturned? Could that be what’s happened?” She asked out loud.

The words seemed alien to Harold at first, was his wife delusional, had she too struck her head when they fell?

“the lights are on the floor… and they aren’t very bright at all…” She continued, remembering her adopted instinct to describe everything she saw to her husband. “…and oh my – the portholes are underwater!”

Hannah Meredith made a conscious decision not to parrot her next thoughts, but upon seeing the sight of the deep water beyond the windows, feared the ship was sinking, if it hadn’t already sunk! How her body urged her, pressed her to leap up and flee the cabin, to run and find somebody, anybody that could point them to safety. She even felt herself rise up onto her knee’s, ready to bolt through the cabin door, but her anchor, her duty, remained terrified, lost and confused, sat beside her without a clue as to just how bad their predicament was. She couldn’t run anywhere without Harold, but her gut began to churn and knot, at the thought that neither could she run anywhere _with_ Harold.

The ship rocked suddenly, only slightly, but enough to make something overhead collapse and rumble, and Hannah was sure she heard a rushing of water. She looked between Harold and the door, and in a moment of weakness, she wondered whether she was truly capable of leaving him there, so that she could fight to survive. Could Hannah Meredith ignore his confused shouting after her as she abandoned him, could she keep running long enough until she could no longer hear him tripping around their cabin blindly wondering where she had gone? She knew how wonderful she would feel just to see the open sky…, but how long would it be before that relief would transform into a realisation of what she had done?

“Hannah?” Harold quietly spoke at last, stopping her racing mind in its tracks. She looked back from the doorway to the man sat humbly, cradling her hand in his own. “I’m scared Hannah…”

She began to cry, she wept profusely as she fell into his arms. She cried not out of fear, but out of relief, as the certainty came to her that she could never leave him there, never abandon him, even if it cost her life.


	21. Chapter 21 – The Officers aren’t coming…

Harry Perkins had but a moment to try and understand what had happened, before the stampede had begun. He had been given no reprieve, not time to try and come to terms with the disaster that had befallen him, before he had seen the train of stomping boots coming across the floor towards him. In an aggressive, ferocious panic men and women that had been resting in the crew began to run, race, fight away from each other to be the first out of their cabin or lounge, desperate to search for a way out. As they washed over him without a care for anything but their imminent survival, their feet kicked Harry, stamped on his head, crushed his arms that he’d tried to hold up to shield his face. He screamed aloud for them to mind him, not to tread on him, but their fear rendered them deaf to anything but their own voices. He tried to catch his breath, to handle the pain for as long as he could, but repeatedly he was trampled by engine room boots, nurse plimsolls or beautician heels. He managed to finally swing one arm out and grab hold of the doorframe through which the capsizing ship had thrown him, and inch by inch, he dragged himself over the frame and out of the corridor.

The room, that was in reality precisely the same shape as it had been before, somehow now felt like a coffin, suffocating and claustrophobic. The light had failed completely, but the light from the corridor illuminated the ceiling overhead, that served as constant reminder that Harry was imprisoned, trapped, with no easy route to escape from whatever catastrophe had struck the _‘Poseidon’_. The walls seemed to continue to close in around him, and the image of himself dying in such a filthy, cramped place made him shudder and weep.

This close to the engine room, the cacophony of sounds was deafening, relentless. The crashing and tearing off the machinery was so tremendous that many others nearby could be heard crying out “She’s breaking up! She’s broke her back!” Harry had no idea if they were right or wrong.

Harry pulled his legs in tight to his chest, and wrapped his arms around them, curling into the tightest ball he could manage, until the initial panic had begun to calm. When he could persuade his own eyes to open, he’d watched as the number of people racing past the doorway dwindled to the occasional engineer or steward, the more injured that hadn’t been able to keep up with the rest. Harry wanted to move now, he wanted to escape, but willing his heavy body into motion seemed impossible. As the ship rolled beneath him, and the engine and boiler rooms continued to roar and crash, he felt that any movement he made may somehow disturb the balance and be directly responsible for sending the ship into its final plunge.

As he stared at the open doorway, and thought more about moving, a pair of Turkish engineers covered in grease and blood ran past, but stayed in earshot long enough for Harry to make out what one was saying to the other;

“…and if we’re lucky, we’re still high enough out of the water to find a gangway door! We can jump for it!”

The very mention of a way out had Harry lunging for the doorway and tripping out of it at break-neck speed, but his bare feet immediately began to slip and slide off the snake-like pipes that ran along what had once been the ceiling, it slowed his progress as he tried to run and catch up with the two men he had heard. “Wait for me! Take me with you!” He called out, fighting the pain in his chest to raise his voice over the sounds of the settling wreck around him.

He wondered for a moment, whether the Captain would soon be ordering the crew to muster stations, surely then there would be plenty of people to guide him up to an exit, to a lifeboat! He pictured the scene that he may find back up on deck – something out of an old black and white ‘Titanic’ film he didn’t doubt, the promenade filled with the passengers waiting to be lowered away. He began to grow angry as he continued to try and dodge the pipework – of course the passengers wouldn’t be going through this shower of shit – those rich bastards would have had time to dress comfortably and been escorted to the lifeboats as if it was a damned shore excursion.

As he turned a dark corner, wiping the sweat from his eyes, Harry faced a wide, long corridor, which he somehow didn’t recognise at all. How could he not recognise where he was – he had only ventured a few feet from his cabin? The lights were only on for a further ten or so feet, but even so, the layout and arrangement of doors was completely alien to him. As he surveyed the floor beyond, trying to work out the best route to follow, he made out other survivors wandering aimlessly or sitting with their heads in their hands, and beyond them, he could see the two engineers he’d been trying to pursue, stood arguing just beyond where the lights went out.

“Hey! Wait for me, I need you to wait…” Harry screamed through a beaming smile, as the sight of those two men with a solid plan offered him salvation, they alone could save him, and he had caught up!

The explosion came from nowhere. The ceiling above the two engineers seemed to break open, collapse and unleash an inferno as a monstrous mound of wreckage ploughed down through the corridor, breaking onward through the floor, carrying with it the two engineers and many others that had been close by. Its wake of hellish fire spread outward, consuming the oxygen and searching hungrily for more. Harry felt the heat coming towards him, and span about as fast as he could, before leaping back the way he had come with all the speed his painful legs could gather. He turned the corner, he could no longer seem to remember which doorways he’d come through, so chose any at random, twisting and turning, hoping to lose the fiery beast behind him. As the flash fire began to singe his hair, as the heat began to swallow his legs and lick his back, Harry struck a metal railing that was hanging from above, and was sent tumbling down an open stairwell.

He landed on something soft and warm, feeling a crunch. He lay still as the fire overhead instantly dissipated, starved of anymore air, and contained by a dead end. He gave in to a fit of trembling, letting his body shake and fall limp. He’d never seen anyone die, let alone seen them crushed before his very eyes. What had happened? where had that massive mountain of steel and fire come from? He had only seen anything that massive down in the engine room… _down_ in the engine room. As he lay still, he began to piece together all the signs that had been right in front of his face, yet like a simpleton he hadn’t even begun to consider what they meant. The pipes on the floor, the railing hanging from the ceiling, the engineroom machinery falling from above…

“Jesus Christ… we’ve turned over…” He whispered to himself in disbelief. That would mean no organised evacuation, no muster stations. As he pictured how the ship would appear upside down, he realised that the bridge – the centre of command, the top of the organisational structure, was now the deepest part of the ship, destroyed. The officers, the Captain, those whom the entire ship would usually look to in times of trouble, they would all be drowned, gone! And the lifeboats… they would all be underwater too! How would everyone get off the ship without lifeboats?

He closed his eyes hard and held his hands up to his temples, wanting to slow the mounting anxiety in his racing mind. He needed to be clear minded, to plan a way to get to wherever the passengers would be led.

‘ _No wait – led by who? The officers aren’t coming you sodding idiot!’_ he thought to himself. ‘ _So where will the passengers instinctively go? Safety in numbers!_ ’ But the realisation then dawned on him that the passengers too occupied the much higher decks – that were now below him too, much further _down_.

“Oh god no…. oh _Shit!_ ” He spat, understanding that it was likely, that most of the passengers were likely drowned by now. But one name began to dominate his thoughts almost immediately. In horror, Harry realised that he had no idea where Sheridan would have been when disaster had struck. With a refreshed urgency to move, he rolled to one side, trying to find a solid surface to stand back up on. Sitting upright, his hand fell upon the lifeless face of the corpse that had broken his fall.


	22. Chapter 22 - Euphoria

Ricardo Fisher and his daughter Emilia had pulled Barbara Pearce clear of the staircase landing just as the rising tide had threatened to swell over her head. After working together to ascend the slippery slope, they had each taken an arm and pulled the elderly woman up in a single take.

Barbara felt shame in thinking for a moment they had promised to help her up only to get her out of their own way, but as soon as both had reached her sister Marion, they had set about keeping their promise. The water had continued to rise quickly as she’d stretched out to reach them, and had taken her by surprise at how freezing it was – the shock had left her gasping for air.

The four stood still only long enough to take in their situation and try to decide what direction to move in next, but in that short time, each was haunted by the muffled screams and cries for help from the cabins nearby, as each was flooded one by one, killing those trapped inside. Already, the rising water carried what appeared to be at least three bodies amongst the shattered debris of furniture.

Ricardo’s face was as motionless as a statue, although wet and dirty, his face gave away no emotion other than serenity. He was no stranger to death, nor to the sound of countless souls begging for salvation as their lives were swiftly extinguished. The sound of death actually distressed him very little, in fact it stirred very distant memories, ones from a happier, glorious period in his life, and for a moment amongst the chaos, he found he was feeling a vague sense of euphoria.

It took the shock of the cold water pouring across his ankles to break his trance, and he moved promptly into action, taking hold of his daughters hand and pulling her around to tackle the next level of the staircase. But even as he pushed her small behind with both hands, vaulting her up and onto the next landing, his eyes drifted to the water below, and he paused to see if he could hear any more screams. How quickly they had all stopped – he couldn’t hear a single one, only the rushing of the water and the creaking of the ship. Sighing quietly with a fleeting disappointment, he refocused his attention on saving himself and Emilia from suffering the same fate.

He held out his hands to the two elderly sisters beside him, and he smiled at the slightly more youthful looking blonde, Marion. “We must hurry ladies, mustn’t dawdle. We don’t know how long we’ll stay afloat… must climb higher!” He was firm, but forced a smile and a slight hint of humour becoming of a proper gentleman, earning himself a nervous smile in return from Marion. Beneath the friendly expression nevertheless, he was cursing how slowly the stupid old bitches moved, it was going to be hard work towing them along like a herd of lame cattle. But if his days in the Nazi regime had taught him anything, it was to always have somebody expendable up front, that could trip the trap and take the first bullet. 

Nurse Gina Rowe was lost. She had been returning down to the hospital when the ship overturned, but had been fortunate enough to be caught in a very narrow corridor that had allowed her to roll only very short distances from floor, to wall, to ceiling with barely a scratch. But even when she had identified straight away that everything was reversed, her sense of direction had failed her. As she had wandered, she’d encountered many other surviving crew members, some of whom she recognised, others that bore only a slight resemblance to somebody she may have given the once over during the crewman physical check-ups. Most had been too disorientated or confused to stop, pushing her aside against a wall so that they could press on towards wherever they thought would be safe. One or two had stopped to speak, the first a young seaman of no more than seventeen or eighteen, Herbert. He’d looked even more frightened than Gina was, but had politely refused her offer to stay with her, in favour of trying to find his cousin who worked in the carpenters shop. She’d watched him stagger away, clearly without a clue where he was going, on into the darkness.

The second person she had met had been a young woman, one of the dancing troupe that had been onboard, the terrified little thing hadn’t been able to string a sentence together, scampering half-naked wearing only a dressing gown through the dim lighting like a sewer rat. Gina had tried to take hold of her by the shoulders and settle her down, but she’d proceeded to panic to the point of hysterics, rambling about finding her friend Sybil, before bursting into tears and then too rushing away down a side corridor.

Thinking that by some stroke of luck she may the only one to have kept hold of all her marbles, Gina pressed on through the maze of steel bulkheads until she’d by a miracle found a sign towards the hospital, printed on the wall now at the height of her knee. Delighted to have at least found something familiar, she began to jog faster, hopping her little feet between the gaps in the ceiling pipes as though she were a young girl playing hopscotch. “Dr Caravello? Doctor?” She began to call out, hoping he may be another such as herself to maintain a level head in a crisis. 

Rounding a corner, she found herself on the main ‘Broadway’ corridor, and was amazed to find so many people in one place, scattered in groups for as far as she could see! Many that had open wounds or that were bracing broken arms and legs looked up from their laps at the sight of a nurse, and began to beckon her over.

“I will help you all! I promise, but I must first find the doctor – he’s just down here!” She called out, as she began to follow the next upside-down sign. “I promise I’ll be back very soon!” She knew that the little supply in her first-aid satchel would barely cover a handful of minor cuts and bruises – she couldn’t hope to treat everyone as she was, and swallowed her natural compulsion to run to the nearest casualty as she pressed on to find Dr Caravello. Now vaguely confident that she knew where she was, her mind spent the last stretch of her journey mulling over the irony that this had been her very first voyage on board the _‘Poseidon’,_ or any ship for that matter. Her outward excuse had been that she’d been seeking a little excitement and adventure after years spent in state-run hospitals, and that much was perfectly true. There had been little reason for anyone on board to know that she’d also been running from Bill – the overbearing drunk that struck her, that last and final time a month before she’d fled, and flown across the world to join the ‘ _Poseidon’_ s first cruise. She wondered if maybe that explained her calm behaviour now, her acceptance of her predicament, for compared to her thirty-year marriage to Bill Wainwright, even a foundering ocean liner was a preferable fate.

She reached the hospital at last, accessed through its unassuming single doorway off of Broadway. “Doctor? Are you still here? Are you alright?” She called out, kicking a clear path through the knee-deep swamp of paperwork, trollies and debris, most of which was so tangled that it blotted out the little glow the emergency lights gave off. “Dr Caravello? We have so many hurt outside, all down Broadway…”

It was so dark in the small corner office that if Gina hadn’t persisted in shuffling through the wreckage, she could easily have missed the Doctor in his black uniform, sprawled beneath a toppled cabinet. He began to groan as she cleared a space around him, and helped him to sit up.

“I’m alright, I’m fine.” He snapped slightly, brushing away her hands as she tried to tend to a cut on his forehead. “Sorry Gina, I don’t mean to bite…” He grumbled, wiping saliva from his chin as he fought his way up onto his feet. “Can’t say I had much reason to move… so I didn’t. Don’t see much reason now, either.” He angrily kicked at an overturned chair. Looking up at the floor overhead, he swore under his breath. “She won’t stay afloat long like this. Can’t possibly…”

“Shh!” Gina cut him off quickly, pressing a firm hand against his chest as she looked away to try and listen again. “What was that?”

The voice came again, distant, but distinct. “Hey! Whoever is out there…” Gina’s eyes grew wide with determination; “Somebody else in here? I’m going to check on them…” Doctor Caravello lashed out suddenly and took her by the elbow.

“Don’t bother with him Gina. Bastard’s been yellin’ non-stop since the world went topsy-turvy. It’s the guy that went wacko on that couple up on – _down_ on D deck. He’s not worth a bother.” The Doctor began to pat his pockets until he found a packet of cigarettes and pulled one straight out and lit it.


End file.
